


The Rains

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: So Much Trouble [16]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, All Kinds of Dancing, Alternate Universe, Aphrodisiacs, Dancing in the Rain, Dominance, F/M, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Multi, Power Imbalance, Sex Pollen, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Starker D/s, Submission, fast dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: A "sex-pollen made them do it" story, for those of you who think hangover-free aphrodisiacs would make life so much better.  I agree, obviously.  I wrote it, after all.~~~“Peter!” shouts a voice from the path, and he turns, because it’s Ms. Potts.  His eyes find her and he laughs, because she is absolutely drenched, her fancy outfit plastered to her.  Mr. Stark is standing next to her, water running off his three-piece suit. He runs over to them, laughing, and says, “This is awesome!  You missed all the fun!”“Oh, we’ve been watching you play,” Mr. Stark teases him.  “Looked like you were having fun, Trouble.” His eyes travel up and down Peter’s tunic and Peter realizes suddenly he’s wearing white in the rain.  “You gonna stay down here and splash around a bit, or you think you want to come up and have some fun with me?”Peter can’t breathe, abruptly, just like that, the oxygen is gone from his lungs.  “You,” he gasps. “You, I want-”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Nakia (Black Panther)/T'Challa, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: So Much Trouble [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562707
Comments: 15
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> BETA READ!! Y'all can thank the fabulous jf4m, any remaining mistakes are all my stubborn fault.
> 
> NOT ENDGAME COMPLIANT. (Let's be real here, this AU is barely MCU compliant.)
> 
> For prudes, these are fictional characters and I've double checked, no one actually has a skeevy real-life relationship as a result of this series, so, like, relax. No one is going to get hurt. They're not real.

When the jet crosses the Wakandan barrier, there’s a slight popping noise and Peter’s Kimoyo beads glow blue. Shuri’s holo blips into view and she shrieks, “Idiot man! I have been waiting! Come, take a travel pill and adjust to your real home again! Get down here!”

Ramonda leans into view, just her head, smiling, and says, “Quickly, please, my spider warrior son, I believe her brother is on his last nerve, as you say.”

Pepper snorts in unison with Mr. Stark and Steve. Peter nods and wills the jet to  _ fly faster _ .

~~~

“Idiot man!” squeals Shuri, grabbing Peter and swirling him, laughing with delight. “Welcome home, WebWarrior of Wakanda!”

It’s a ridiculous title, Peter hates it, but it’s better than Thor’s  _ Thanosbane,  _ or Mr. Stark’s  _ TitanTinker _ , so he allows it, on limited use, Royal Family only.

“Come,” she commands, “the clouds gather, can you feel them? We must be down at the Festival Grounds before it breaks, are you wearing  _ that?” _

Peter looks down at his t-shirt and jeans and hazards, “No?”

“No,” she agrees, tossing her head. “You will fit in my brother’s old kaftans, come.”

She drags him behind her. He shouts at Mr. Stark, Pepper, and Steve, “See you later I guess!”

“Later, Peter,” agrees Mr. Stark, eyes twinkling.

She forces a travel pill on him, which eliminates his jet lag and leaves him feeling rested and energized. She digs through a trunk in what he assumes are T’Challa’s rooms, pulling out a white tunic crusted thickly with embroidery. “This one,” she declares, throwing it at him before digging out a pair of matching loose pants. He slides on the outfit and she declares, “No shoes, you are Royalty, your feet must speak to the earth today. Plus they will be ruined.”

She flags down a passing servant in the hallway and passes the bundle of Peter’s clothes to him, imperious. “Take these to the jet, he will not need them, I have dressed him.” The man bows, smiling, and continues on his way.

“Oh the rains will be here so soon!” She squeals, “Tonight will be for adults only, and they will close the rain shield if they must, for the Rain Dance, but the rain riots are for everyone. Come on, I cannot be late!”

Her excitement is absolutely infectious, Peter finds himself laughing as she tugs him along. As they walk through the palace and grounds, people shout to them, teasing, “Shuri, will you be late this year? Run, Shuri! Faster!” She tosses her head and doesn’t falter or pause to snap back at them, so Peter knows she is truly in a hurry.

The festival grounds are a huge courtyard behind the palace gardens, down a long wide twisty path. The ground is covered in multicolored tarps and cloths, “To keep the earth dry for the dancing,” Shuri explains impatiently when he asks her, “Come  _ on _ , we are almost there!”

There is a huge crowd gathered, in white or nearly white tunics, dresses, and pants. Shuri pushes her way through, causing shouts and laughter and more teasing, until they arrive at a small tent, draped in brightly colored sashes and hung around with crystals that sparkle in the sun.

“I have brought him!” Shuri announces to her mother. Ramonda purses her lips and says, “Is that T’Challa’s old-“

“Yes,” interrupts Shuri gleefully. “It fits so well!”

“It does,” concedes Ramonda, with a pleased maternal smile just for Peter. “You look well, my second son.”

“You too,” he tells her, because he’s not a complete idiot. She smiles at him and says, “I know. It is kind of you to say it, my proud warrior. Has Shuri explained the rite of the color riots?”

Peter shakes his head and Ramonda sighs, “Girl.”

“What?” Protests Shuri, spreading her hands. “I had to dress him and then we ran here.”

Ramonda shakes her head and tells Peter, “Today, this festival, teaches us the power of the rains. This afternoon, soon, we will toss the dye balls back and forth. They are safe for everyone, even the smallest babe in arms, do not trouble yourself. Then, the rains will fall, and wash us clean, wash the world clean, and make us new. You will see, it is a time of excitement and joy.”

Peter nods, feeling Shuri’s excitement as she trembles with energy beside him. “Then we eat,” Shuri tells him, “and you must stuff yourself because the dancing lasts  _ all night _ .”

“For some,” her mother says serenely. “Others beg their blessing and leave earlier.”

“Well, for me, all night, although T’Challa said this morning I am forbidden, Mama,” she says, as if she just remembered it.

“Forbidden?” asks Ramonda, laughing. “How does the foolish boy think to accomplish that? You are  _ required _ .”

“I don’t know, I told him he was being stupid, but that made him even more stubborn!” protests Shuri. Peter winces, as does Ramonda.

Ramonda blows out a breath and tells her daughter, “That was not well done of you. Still, you will have to settle your accounts in some other fashion, the Rain Dance is too sacred for such petty foolishness.”

Shuri nods her head and replies, “ _ You _ tell him, mother, he will not listen to  _ me.” _

“I will. Prepare yourself tonight, I will send him to fetch you,” Ramonda assures her.

“Ahh, it is time!” shouts a voice outside the tent. “Grandmother Cloud has burst the dye packet!”

Shuri’s eyes widen comically and she squeals, grabbing Peter’s hand and pulling him from the tent. The people are laughing and tossing what looks like sponge balls around the crowd, and every time one lands- on a shoulder or a head or a face or the ground, a small cloud of color puffs up. Peter laughs, he’s heard of similar festivals elsewhere around the world and they always looked like so much fun. He dives in with Shuri, grabbing the nearest ball and tossing it at her shoulder.

Soon everyone is coated, laughing and smiling, holding children and infants in the air to be gently tapped with a dye ball. Peter feels some dust get in his eyes, but he blinks it out because it only stings a little.

Then the sky cracks above them and everyone tilts their faces, the sound loud and echoing over the grounds. 

“Aaah!” screams Shuri wildly at Peter, because they have become separated in all the excitement, pointing, “The rains!! Peter, the rains!!”

He smiles with her, and tilts his face as the hot deluge begins to fall. Everyone is dancing and shouting, throwing the sodden dye balls, which squelch and hit with only a little more force. Some of the youngest children and infants are crying, but everyone else is shrieking with laughter and joy, holding hands and dancing or just jumping around in the puddles like children. Several people have fallen and are helped up by whoever is closest. He understands why they call it a riot, it is an untamed commotion of color and people and water.

“Peter!” shouts a voice from the path, and he turns, because it’s  _ Ms. Potts.  _ His eyes find her and he laughs, because she is absolutely drenched, her fancy outfit plastered to her. Mr. Stark is standing next to her, water running off his three-piece suit. He runs over to them, laughing, and says, “This is awesome! You missed all the fun!”

“Oh, we’ve been watching you play,” Mr. Stark teases him. “Looked like you were having fun, Trouble.” His eyes travel up and down Peter’s tunic and Peter realizes suddenly he’s wearing  _ white _ in the  _ rain. _ “You gonna stay down here and splash around a bit, or you think you want to come up and have some fun with me?”

Peter can’t breathe, abruptly, just like that, the oxygen is gone from his lungs. “You,” he gasps. “You, I want-”

Mr. Stark laughs and leans in. Peter almost shies away but, well, it’s kinda dark and raining and  _ Wakanda _ , and he doesn’t want to back away. He tilts his head for Mr. Stark’s kiss, instead. It’s amazing, standing in the middle of a city, kissing Mr. Stark, where anyone can see, and it makes him giddy and wildly excited.

They go to Peter’s rooms, the same rooms he’d been assigned after Titan, and Mr. Stark strips him out of his wet clothes with fast and efficient hands, throwing the sodden fabric over various pieces of furniture to drip. He tries to help Mr. Stark with his own suit, but gets his hands batted away while Mr. Stark deals with the buttons efficiently himself. They towel off and smile at each other, naked in the dim light, the heavy rains of Wakanda audible through the open windows. The air is so hot and heavy and now  _ humid _ that Peter’s in no danger of shivering, but he has goosebumps as Mr. Stark guides him to the bed with a careful hand. “Lay down,” directs Mr. Stark. “This is called Afternoon Delight.”

Peter laughs, because that’s the name of an absolutely  _ ancient  _ drippy song. “Are you kidding me, Mr. Stark?” he gasps. Mr. Stark’s eyes twinkle as he crawls on top of Peter. “Never done this one, yet, have we?” he asks, his longer, thicker body stretched out on top of Peter. Peter shakes his head. “Yeah, that island is getting closer every day,” says Mr. Stark slowly, grinding his hips forward, setting a slow rocking pace that Peter knows he can keep up for hours while Peter explodes. “I can’t wait.”

“You could, we don’t  _ have _ to wait,” offers Peter, and then bites his lip in uncertainty. He doesn’t want to  _ push,  _ and maybe he also doesn’t want right now, either. 

“Nah, I want good lube,” says Mr. Stark. “Only the best for my favorite toy.”

Peter flushes, and then tosses his head, because this feels so good. It feels so luxurious, after weeks of midnight kisses and smirks in hallways and trying to steal moments, just to be here, in this bed, with Mr. Stark, with nothing else to do for  _ hours _ . And Mr. Stark says it’s just going to get better and better from here until next September. 

Mr. Stark kisses his neck, and murmurs, “Did we ever find out how fast hickeys heal? Want to mark you up but not shock the natives.”

Peter deadpans, “‘I sure do fall into a lot of doorknobs,’ is a time-honored alibi.”

Mr. Stark laughs, and bites his neck, and it feels so good, the roll of his hips and and the bite, the wet suction pulling a bruise up. He wants Mr. Stark to know how absolutely amazing this feels, so he rolls his hips in an attempt at imitation and mumbles, “Could do this forever, feels so good.”

Mr. Stark raises his head and smiles down at him and says, “You’re so fucking perfect, Trouble. I can’t wait to get you out to the island. You’re not wearing anything, just like this, for a week.”

“I’ll burn,” Peter warns him.

Mr. Stark laughs and says, “A little burn never hurt anyone.” He dips his head and licks a lewd stripe up Peter’s neck, and says, “Besides, it’ll make any red marks on your ass look less suspicious.” Peter gulps, shocked by that image. Mr. Stark nibbles on his lips and whispers, “Open up, I want in,” before kissing him, playful and lewd, with way too much tongue, just the way Peter loves it best.

They have all afternoon, there’s nothing scheduled until the Rain Dance late that night after sunset, and while Peter feels momentarily guilty, because he traveled all this way, shouldn’t he be, like, hanging out with Bucky? Or Shuri? He also wants nothing more than to be right here, rolling around on a bed with Mr. Stark, with no fucking time clock to make them stop or speed up.

The rain falls, heavy and thick outside the window, and Mr. Stark takes him apart slowly, methodically, breaks him down to his component parts, twitching and gasping until they both burst into joyful release. The rains are still falling as Peter drifts off, rubbing Mr. Stark’s back as the man snores, his muscles the loosest Peter has seen them in weeks. Afternoon Delight is on the list, Peter thinks, and it’s his last complete thought before sleep swamps over him.


	2. Chapter 2

The darkness beyond the fires is absolute, stars and no moon, all of the house windows that Peter knows are out there completely covered with thick mats. The palace servants had been putting them up over the windows in Peter’s room as T’Challa had helped him into his, well, _ceremonial_ _loincloth_ for the evening rituals. There’s no glow on the horizon, all of Wakanda has blackened their world in exchange for the light of these torches and bonfires. Shuri had said earlier that every neighborhood and village would be throwing their own Rain Dance tonight, but that he was her guest at the court festival, and he better not arrive _late_.

There’s a drumbeat, steady and fast, and Peter feels his steps move in time with it as he approaches the courtyard. The air is steamy, after the heavy afternoon rains, and he’s grateful for the lack of clothes as sweat starts to bead along the creases of his limbs. He watches as shirtless women and men stream past, thick necklaces with dozens of strands of tiny beads gleaming against the bare skin of their chests in the torchlight.

Bucky waves him over, a strange disapproving expression on his face as he says, “Stark’s crazy, letting you come out tonight.” He’s a powerful figure in his own loincloth, savage and sleek, woven in colors of blue and grey and black.

Peter bristles- they’re just _boobs-_ and shoots back, “I’m an adult, this is the _adult festival,_ I’m not staying inside with the kids.”

Bucky shakes his head, sucking in a breath to say, “Your funeral, kid.” 

Peter retorts, stung by the ridiculousness of that, “They’re just _boobs_ , it’s not gonna _kill_ me, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow and he steps away from Peter to say, “Oh, no, Rogers, you turn around and head inside, this is not your kinda dance hall, and I don’t need to be explaining shit all night.”

“They’re breasts, Buck, I’m not gonna faint,” laughs Steve, his Brooklyn accent thickening. He’s shirtless, because that’s the theme, in a pair of khaki board shorts. He sticks out, but not any more than he does _literally_ _anywhere_. “You used to share your Tijuana bibles with me all the time, and now you’re tryin’ t’tell me I can’t handle some bare chests?”

“I’m sayin’ this is no place for either of you, get inside,” growls Bucky. 

Peter glances at Steve, who has his stubborn face on, before setting his jaw and challenging, “Make us.” Steve shifts slightly, and the impression of the two of them against Bucky is complete.

The air is hot, and sticky, with no breeze to swirl between the three of them and relieve some of the sudden tension. Peter is about to repeat his challenge, louder, when T’Challa bounds up to them laughing. “Ah, my White Wolf, how you look to your pack always! But they have the same right to dance that you did, your first year, and so I cannot allow you to snap at them and send them whining to their dens. I tell you again, my friend, all will be well, I promise it.”

“This’s all on you then,” snaps Bucky, glaring between T’Challa and Steve before turning on his heel and diving into the darkness.

T’Challa laughs, “I claim all responsibility! Shuri will be jealous. You look so regal, Peter Parker, mother will be pleased. Steve, I am sorry you did not find it comfortable, but you, too, look well.” T’Challa himself is a shadow of thunderstorm coloration, his black loincloth shot with blue sparks and chevrons, his necklace hundreds of jet black beads interrupted by small jagged pieces of turquoise. “Come, mother will want to put your beads on with her own hands; she has claimed the right for all of our guests tonight.”

He leads them into the darkness, and Peter is acutely aware of how pasty his skin is as he watches the Wakandan people move, gleaming shadows in the greater darkness. Steve is like a flame against the inky backdrop, and he knows his skin is shades lighter than Steve’s tawny tan. It makes his shoulders itch and even in the heat, he thinks wistfully of his dark grey hoodie. 

They arrive at the same tent Ramonda had held court in during the rain riot, but gone are the bright colors and crystals dripping refracted rainbows. In its place is a midnight scene of dark blues and blacks, purples and reds, and Ramonda is gorgeous in a diaphanous robe of deepest gleaming black, with a double dozen strands of white and gold beads draped across her chest. As they near, Peter realizes the fabric which looked so demure from a distance is sheer, and he blushes when he realizes he can see her _nipples_ . Surrounded by bare bodies gleaming in all shades of beautiful night, the fact that he can see _hers_ makes him distinctly uncomfortable. She smiles at him, inclining her head to say, “Come here, my second son, and let me adorn you.”

He tells himself not to stare at her nipples like a weirdo, _he just told Bucky he could handle this_ , and inclines his head for her to put the several strands of red and blue beads over his neck. They settle on top of Mr. Stark’s necklace, hiding it from view, but the pressure of their weight presses the pendant gently into his skin. She holds out a similar necklace to Steve, in a different pattern, who bends awkwardly at the waist to receive it. “There, you are warriors of the torch and flame, come to cut a swath at our invitation,” she tells them, her voice full of maternal satisfaction. “Do you hear the heartbeat of our mother?”

Peter and Steve both nod. It’s not a hard metaphor to follow, the drums have been thrumming constantly since the sun began to sink in the West, but it has been a consistent bass rhythm that does mimic a heartbeat fairly closely. “Ahh,” she sighs, pleased with them both, “she is ripe and fecund tonight, and by morning, she will be fertile and in bloom. The rains bring such life to us after the long dry drought, and that life should be celebrated. You will drink, now,” she says kindly, reaching to the table beside her cushions for a pitcher and a glass. 

T’Challa teases, “May I, too, have a glass poured from your hand, Mother of Us All?”

She slides him a quelling glances, handing first Steve and then Peter a cup of liquid that almost gags Peter because it is disgustingly sweet. He powers through it under her serene gaze, as she turns to her son and scolds, “Where is your sister, you stubborn man? Must I stand and serve alone because you would hide her from the flame and the dark?”

T’Challa’s playful demeanor changes, flickering through anger to shame as his mother upbraids him. “Mother,” he replies uncertainly.

“On this night, when I stand before you in the robes and offices of the Mother of Us All, you would deny me my best beloved daughter and stand in front of me and cry, ‘Mother,’ and kick at stones? Fetch your sister.” Ramonda’s eyes blaze until T’Challa nods and sighs and bows his exit to all three of them.

“He is a good boy,” calls a gentle voice from the darkness and Peter startles. There is an elderly woman tucked up against the wall of the tent, her dark black beads pools of shadow against her chest.

“He forgets that he does not rule the tides and the winds and the coming of the rains,” replies Ramonda flatly, scowling at the darkness where T’Challa had disappeared.

“He is a good boy,” insists the elder. “He will bring her, and she will dance. Ready their cups, O Mother, and send these dancers out to the fire.” She flicks a wrist dismissively at Peter and Steve. “Where is that White Wolf, who cuts such a swath, a blade shining bright in the flame light?” She asks them. Her voice is not as querulous as Peter expects, and she sounds like she’s reciting poetry when she talks.

Peter shrugs and Steve says politely, “I’m sure he’ll be by to pay his respects. We’ll send him if we see him.”

Peter nods. It’s an easy promise to keep.

The unknown woman peers at them and then says, “Bah. I will send the boy to capture him before too long. All of these visitors will not distract me from my favorites.” 

Ramonda smiles indulgently at the woman and says, “You liked their Pepper Potts, though, Grandmother Cloud.”

“A brilliant flame! You dressed her well in those robes of red and orange, she will burn brightly tonight, and all who see her will be blinded in the dark. And that partner of hers, in red and gold, eyes and hair as dark as ours, it is a shame he wouldn’t wear the warrior’s cloth.” Her tone is genuinely regretful and makes Peter think of Mr. Stark in a red and gold soft cloth, like the one T’Challa had fastened around his waist earlier. He pictures it, feeling the fabric of his own cloth brush against his thighs, and feels his skin tighten with a creeping blush.

“Follow the drums,” laughs Ramonda at them, “and be merry, tonight is a night of mysteries and renewal, the world remade again and again forever. Go, and return if you get thirsty!”

The old woman cackles a bit, as if Ramonda has told some joke only they two could understand, and Steve squares his shoulder, meeting Peter’s eye. “Drums,” says Steve firmly, and Peter nods, replying, “Yeah, this way, Cap,” leading the way out of the tent.

Without a guide, Peter notices more about the path to the largest bonfire. There are small tents, of red and purple and midnight blue fabric, dotted along the path and in between houses, wherever they can be squeezed. He eyes them and wonders what in the world they could symbolize, or if they’re just there for ambiance. He notes them mostly to steer Cap away from stumbling into their ropes, and thinks they’re a ridiculous safety hazard even if they’re super meaningful to the Wakandans.

As they get closer to the bonfire at the center of the festival grounds, Peter begins to look around for Pepper and Mr. Stark. They’ll stick out, he reminds himself. Easy to find, like him and Steve. When he first spots them though, he is definitely not prepared for how much they stick out. His jaw drops a little and he stumbles a step before catching himself and looking again.

Pepper is in a diaphanous orange gown the exact tone of her hair but several shades lighter, belted with a slash of thick red sashing. The millions of tiny beads that decorate her throat and chest begin as a choker wrapped around her neck and sway into ever-longer strands of fiery sparkle that complement the shine of her hair in the firelight. She has painted her lips a bright red and she’s wearing the thinnest sandals on her feet, laced with red ribbon up to her calf. Darker, beautiful bodies swirl around her, and she stands out like a lone flame floating in a midnight sea.

Mr. Stark, beside her, is dressed in a tight, form-fitting gold sleeveless tunic, open at the neck in a deep vee that displays the necklace thick with strands of tiny red beads, and knee-length red shorts, covered in gold embroidery. He’s the only man Peter has seen with any shirt on, and it makes him look… princely. Peter’s mouth goes dry and he is suddenly incredibly conscious that he’s wearing a single strip of cloth, wrapped to his waist with a heavy red sash. His footsteps must be slowing, he thinks, because Steve is walking ahead of him, into the bonfire light, his skin glowing in reflected light.

Pepper’s face lights up when he clears his throat at them, and she twirls for him and says, “Look what Ramonda gave me! Isn’t it amazing?” Peter does not check for her nipples, and he thinks, _Ha!_ at Bucky, wherever the man is. He smiles at her and says, “You are the prettiest woman here, Ms. Potts. Absolutely gorgeous.” Steve makes a sound of agreement.

“There’s so many nipples,” she tells him, seriously, and he can tell by her flushed cheeks that she’s had more than a little wine. “I can’t compete with these women, their bodies are like female Captain America, I keep thinking if I looked like that I’d be wearing a little skirt and nothing but my necklace, too.”

Peter swallows down that image as quickly as he can, but not before Mr. Stark smirks at him, encouraging her with, “Honey, you can wear whatever you want tonight, my treat.”

Peter rolls his eyes at Mr. Stark, who reaches out and taps Peter’s necklace, right where the pendant sits. “I see you’ve been to Ramonda,” he says, and his eyes light up when he catches a glimpse of his necklace nestled under all the beads. He glances up at Peter, asking slyly, “She give you any of that cough syrup?”

“Oh, no” Pepper interrupts loudly, as Peter nods wordlessly, “That was gross. I won’t drink any more of it, I don’t care who she is.” She takes a sip from the cup in her hand emphatically. Peter has never seen her less than perfectly composed, and he knows he’s staring but he can’t help himself. Mr. Stark catches his eye and winks at him, rubbing Pepper’s arm in a proprietary fashion. Mr. Stark tells her, “That’s right honeybun, you drink whatever you want tonight.”

“I,” she says, with the air of someone making an important general announcement, “am officially on vacation. Twenty-four hour hold.”

“Vacation looks good on you, ma’am,” laughs Steve. “And I don’t see how anyone could sneak a camera in, so no PR to worry about either.”

She smiles at him sunnily and says, “That’s exactly right, Mr. Rogers. Now, everyone keeps saying there’s going to be dancing, but everyone’s just standing around drinking. When do you think the dancing starts? Ramonda said we could join in!”

“Ramonda said we were _expected_ to join in,” corrects Mr. Stark, rolling his shoulders and taking a sip from the cup in his hand. “She made a big deal about Pepper dancing with delight,” he tells Steve. “So we’ve been drinking our courage to get ready for that. Smuggled some down from our bags, this juice barely packs a punch. It’s good, though.” He passes his cup to Steve and says, “Here, drink this, I’ll go get more,” and stalks off into the night.

“Me, too, Tony!” calls Pepper to his back. “Oh, and Peter! Don’t forget Peter!”

Steve looks down at the cup in his hand, frowning, and Pepper assures him, “Oh, it’s nothing like that cough syrup, it’s much lighter, much more smooth. Same flavor though, can’t quite figure it out, something fruity.”

“The manna fruit,” says Bucky, joining them. “It’s a type of berry, the flower blossoms on the first day of the rains and then two weeks later, fruit. They’ve been picking them non-stop since yesterday to make enough of the juice.”

“Oh!” says Pepper, looking into her cup. “Well, it’s good.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky in a weird flat tone. “The stuff Ramonda is handing out is a distilled kind, sits all year, really potent.”

“Well I don’t know why, it’s gross,” laughs Pepper. “I almost spit it out.” She takes another sip of the juice in her cup, as if to wash away the taste of Ramonda’s tincture.

“Oh, you’ll see,” says Bucky ominously, as Tony returns and hands out full cups to everyone.

“White Wolf,” shouts Shuri’s voice, nearing them. Peter whirls to see her arrive, in light blue and white beads. He congratulates himself, again, on not looking at the nipples of his female friends. “Come, you must start the dancing with me, Grandmother Cloud insists! Mother and T’Challa are walking in, you must come with me!” She holds out her hand and Bucky gives her a smile despite his weird mood. 

“Okay, doll,” he laughs, taking her hand and allowing her to draw him forward. “But this is the last year. Next year, you get yourself someone who can keep up with you.”

“Never,” she assures him with a laugh, “until you get yourself someone who can keep up with _you_.”

Bucky flushes a little and Peter wonders if he’s thinking about Steve because they are painfully adorable and if they would just kiss already, _c’mon_ , _guys_ . He hopes Bucky is thinking about Steve, anyway, because Peter’s been watching Steve think about Bucky for months now and it’s starting to get _painful_.

The drums are changing, they sound more insistent, their beat more complex, as if they’re calling dancers to come to them.

They follow Shuri and Bucky as the crowd parts to let them pass. At the edge of the dance space, Ramonda stands, a single cup in her hand. As they approach, she turns to stare at Bucky and there is a weight in her glance that makes Peter uneasy. He can tell it’s affecting Bucky, too, because while he lets Shuri pull him along, his footsteps are getting heavier the closer they get.

“My White Wolf,” T’Challa chides Bucky from Ramonda’s side, “you arrive just in time.” His tone suggests Bucky is barely in time, but Peter has no idea what time it actually is or what difference it makes. It’s so dark it could be ten or midnight or three a.m. 

“ _My_ White Wolf,” corrects Shuri, and takes the cup from her mother to hand it to Bucky. “Drink, hurry, so that we can start the dancing.”

Bucky watches Ramonda while he knocks back the liquid, steadily sipping it from the cup. Ramonda watches back, with solemn eyes and a slight twist of her mouth. “It will be well,” she promises him.

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Bucky tells her with a grimace. “I’ll believe it in the morning.”

Ramonda turns to the gathered crowd, gleaming in the light of the bonfire and the torches. She throws up her arms and says, “O, my children, children of the earth and the air, children of the rains and the life they bring, children of the flame which burns the brightest in the dark, tonight we renew again the lifeblood of the earth. I have chosen my dancers, this my body’s daughter and son, this my blood’s new blood. Let us rejoice to be alive, to dance and to love, and let the world within our walls reflect the world without!”

Peter wonders briefly if they’re ritual words, then, or if she just makes up these speeches and throws them out whenever she needs them. He kind of hopes it’s the second one. Shuri squeals with excitement and pulls Bucky through the crowd and into the light of the fire. The drums change rhythm again, into a rollicking rocking gait, and Peter finds himself nodding along without any effort on his part. Natasha would love this beat, he knows. It’s made for dancing.

Shuri and Bucky stand, facing each other, darkness and light. She holds up her hands, palms facing her, and he does the same. T’Challa is standing with a woman Peter doesn’t recognize, in the same pose, saying something to her to make her laugh as the four of them wait, and wait, and wait. Peter can feel something slide across his nerves, pulling them tight, as the crowd surges back and forth. No one enters the ring of light around the bonfire, though, for all there’s motion everywhere in Peter’s peripheral vision, people swaying and nodding, their feet tapping, their arms shaking. The two couples standing in the light hold still, perfectly composed, and wait.

Eventually, the beat changes again, to a driving rhythm, and Peter has no idea how anyone could possibly be holding still, listening to it. There are calls from the audience, wordless shouts and shrieks of joy, protestations of impatience. The two women- Shuri and the woman Peter does not know, flick their hands and begin rotating their hips and Peter feels his mouth dry because it is immediately obvious that they are _not_ dancing to children’s music. After a few moments of the women dancing, the catcalls increase, and Shuri throws a gigantic smile to the crowd as she and the unknown woman dip their hips in an exaggerated move Peter thinks is probably banned even in rap videos in America. As if that’s a known signal, the men begin to move, too.

As much as the female motions are clearly, well, _sex_ , the male ones leave nothing to the imagination, either. Peter wonders where Bucky learned the steps, but it’s kind of obvious he must have learned them from T’Challa. He must have danced this dance with Shuri, he _did_ dance this dance with Shuri, last year, for sure. Peter can’t take his eyes off of them, bending and twisting, flexing, hips pumping, never quite touching each other, hands held palms in except for the sudden wrist flicks that also seem to be part of the dance.

The rhythm of the drums pounds into the crowd from the soles of their feet upward, shaking them if they stand still too long. The crowd responds with a restless shuffle, but no one quite dares to break the unmarked barrier of the bonfire’s glow. They stand just outside the leading edge of the shadows beyond, looking in, watching the two men and women dance with each other.

Peter’s mouth is completely dry, and then the women and men come together, the women grinding without touching on each other, the men circling too close, bodies undulating a challenge and a promise at each other. He can’t think, he can’t look away, this is way worse than the actual pornography Ned made him watch a few years ago. The dancers separate again, and Peter thinks wildly that Shuri can’t dance _that dance_ with _her brother_ , only to see that no, T’Challa and Shuri have plunged into the crowd and gathered up two more partners apiece while Bucky and the woman continue the pattern of the original dance. Like a dam breaking, the festival grounds flood with the crowd, everyone jumping and thrusting with the dance.

After a few moments, when Peter can’t take his eyes away, but he doesn’t know where to _look,_ Shuri slides up to Peter, Pepper, Steve, and Mr. Stark, laughing, and says, “Okay, now we will show you how to do it.

“Oh, I know how to do it,” Mr. Stark assures her, “I just need to be reassured I won’t be put in jail for public sex, what the fuck kind of party _is this?”_

Pepper gasps, “Teach me, right now, I need to, Shuri, I need to dance with Tony _right now.”_

Shuri giggles and says, “Finish your drinks, come here, it is easy. “ Pepper slams her drink in one quick gulp as Shuri continues, “There are no rules, now that the ritual dance is complete. Do not touch, unless you must. As for what to do, you need only listen to your hips, Pepper Potts.”

“Oh God, do not listen to your hips,” hisses Tony, gulping down his drink and throwing the cup to the ground near a bush. “Do not listen to any part of your body. Stop now.”

“Tony, if you don’t dance with me,” she threatens, whirling on him, her foot tapping to the rhythm of the drums, and yes, her hips are starting to sway a little, Peter can see that, Peter can see the swaying and oh my god, he was so proud about not looking for her nipples, but now she’s _swaying_ and he definitely has nothing to be proud of anymore, _he’s looking,_ “I am going to make Steve dance with me and he will die, Tony. He will _die,_ and you will be responsible for killing him.”

“Dance,” laughs Shuri, “Dance, Man of Iron, your woman commands you, and I know she has brought her muzzle with her. Don’t argue with her, dance with her, and show her she does not need it.”

Peter watches as Tony gives in, the temptation to move overpowering the fear of consequences, and leads Pepper into the ring of light around the bonfires. He watches and he watches as Tony and Pepper dance, sweet and sinful, never quite touching, hips thrusting to the beat of the drums.

Beside him, Steve swallows another sip from his cup. Peter follows suit and Shuri laughs at both of them. 

“The White Wolf is stalking you,” she teases Steve in a low sing song voice. “You will dance with him, my lion, I know you will.”

Steve shakes his head, whether in denial or wonder, Peter can’t tell, it’s too dark here at the edges to make out much.

“Come on, then, and dance with me,” she commands him. “I will show you, here, at the edge, where no one can see. We will practice so that when he comes for you, it will be he who is surprised.”

Peter slips away from them, as Shuri coaxes and cajoles Steve into trying for her. He slides along the edge of the dance floor and he’s not stalking Mr. Stark, but he does want to get a better look. It’s easy to find them, there, in the center of the dancing, two couples out from the edge of the bonfire where a body might get singed with sparks. Mr. Stark is covered in sweat, the tunic and shorts clinging to him, damp lines where the sweat has soaked through already. Ms. Potts is the only woman dancing who is wearing so much fabric, but they look naked. They look naked, and like they have forgotten that the dance is only supposed to simulate sex, except they’re following the one common rule and not touching.

Peter has strong feelings about that rule, strong feelings about not touching. He couldn’t dance like that with Mr. Stark right now, for one, couldn’t stand in public and dance like that and not touch, he’d have to touch, he’d- Peter swallows another sip of his drink.

“Careful, kid,” says Bucky, coming up on his side and startling him. “It’s an aphrodisiac, if you hadn’t figured that out. Hits us just as hard at the norms, too, so go easy.” Peter stares up at him, remembering his dance with Shuri, remembering how his hips had moved, and Bucky smiles, slowly. He plucks the cup from Peter’s grip and drinks it down, dropping it in a nearby bush exactly as Mr. Stark had done earlier, and then says, huskily, “You feelin’ the need to dance a little, kid?”  
  
Peter nods, because he can’t help himself.

“Is that a yes, Peter Parker?” asks Bucky, and okay, now he’s definitely teasing. _Fuck it,_ thinks Peter clearly. This is some kind of fertility _sex_ festival and everyone else knew it and he was _invited_ , he’s been _drugged_ , so _yes,_ he’s going to dance with the hot superhuman who just asked him. MJ will be _so_ _proud_.

“Yes,” answers Peter decisively, and immediately swallows a gulp at his own temerity.

“Well, come out, show me what you got,” laughs Bucky, holding out his metallic hand. Peter takes it, and lets Bucky lead him out to the packed earth of the bonfire’s light, and there are bodies writhing literally everywhere and Peter is getting such an _education_ right now. Bucky snaps his fingers and Peter can hear it, it cuts through the thrum of the drums and the random calls of the dancers. He smiles up at Bucky and _listens to his hips_.

Peter has no idea how long he and Bucky dance, but they dance until he’s so thirsty he’ll actively combust unless water is added soon. He watches Bucky decide to take mercy on him, slapping him on the hip and shouting, “Okay, enough, let’s go get something to drink, kid,” over the pulsing roar of the drums.

Peter nods, grateful, because there was no way he’d have ever been able to _stop dancing with Bucky like that_ , it was so hot, whatever Ramonda gave him has made him so hot, has made him need things, need to keep moving, need- Bucky hands him a cup and says, “Oh, yeah, I know that face, it’s starting to hit you hard, huh, kid? Well, there’s two ways through it at this point, you can dance or you can fuck. You got a partner for the second lined up?”

Peter’s eyes find Mr. Stark and Pepper in the crowd, sweat dripping down their temples, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded, bodies writhing in time to the drums. He shakes his head.

“Well, I can dance with you for awhile yet,” offers Bucky. “Got nowhere else to be.”

“That is false,” laughs Shuri, stumbling over by them. “I taught him how to dance, he is dancing, look, White Wolf, look for your lion.”

Bucky’s head whips up, and he scans the scene around the bonfire. “Shit, Shuri,” he swears. “ _Shit_. What did you do?”

“I set his heart free and told it to listen to his hips,” replies Shuri shamelessly, giving him a little push. “Go, I am tired of watching you two circle. Go dance.” 

Bucky shakes his head, his eyes glued to the form of Steve, dancing with T’Challa and his lady. 

She threatens, “I will dance between you if I must, but you _will_ dance with him.”

“Shuri, I can’t,” he protests, sounding pained. But Peter notes he also sounds like he wants to, wants to dance so badly. Peter _feels that,_ the drums are insistent against the soles of his feet, a constant vibration _._

“You will,” she commands. She smiles and says, “And he will be able to keep up with you tonight, I swear it, White Wolf.”

“Shit,” he swears feverently. “There’s no way, he’s, he never.”

“His hips do not lie, go listen to them, my White Wolf,” she says, patting him on the back. “Go now, before your courage fails you and I have to dance between you.” 

Bucky is shaking his head, but he’s also starting to thread his way through the crowd, and his eyes have not once looked away from Steve so Peter figures he’s totally going to follow her directions. He shifts, uncomfortable not dancing, and Shuri leans over to rest her head on his shoulder for a moment. “I like them, my lion and the White Wolf, but they are killing me,” she declares. “What more could they ask the Mother for than someone who literally will follow them through time?"

“Peggy Carter,” he says promptly, surprising her into a laugh.

“I think they will figure it out without her guidance this time,” she snorts. In the light of the bonfire, Steve turns, startled, as T’Challa laughs and turns his attention to his lady and only his lady. Bucky and Steve are the only two people standing still in the crowd for a full set of beats, before they start to _move_ . There are dark limbs all around them, fancy dance moves and the slow sultry shifting of flushed flesh, but Steve and Bucky are enhanced humans, extra-human, and it _shows_.

“So cute,” agrees Peter, thirsty again, gulping from his cup, his feet tapping to the beat.

“ _You_ are so cute,” she laughs, standing up. “Well, I must go play matchmaker once or twice more, go dance, Peter. Just go stand at the edge, looking like cream, someone willing to lap at you will see you.” He nods his head, watching Bucky and Steve circle each other, it’s so hot, Steve just a little uncertain, Bucky possessive and just a little angry. He’ll go dance, he’ll go, he just, there’s so much to _see_ right now. Shuri laughs, “You are not listening to me but drink up, Peter, and then go dance.”

Peter watches Steve and Bucky and works on draining his cup one slow sip at a time. Bucky throws a few swing dance steps in, out of place, and anyone else would have laughed, but Steve moves into his space- Peter gasps because _is he going to touch?_ Bucky backs away nervously, a few fast paces, and Steve follows. Peter thinks of Steve in Denmark, saying, “Fuck PR” to an empty bar, and swallows another sip. Cute isn’t quite the word he would use right now.

“Hot as hell,” murmurs Pepper, sliding a hand up his arm and startling him. He chokes on his drink and gasps for air as she hums and repeats, “That is hot as hell.” Her hand is a fiery brand on his arm, and it pats him gently before resettling on his shoulder, helping her balance. He holds very still, trying to think sturdy thoughts for her.

“Stopping for a drink,” Mr. Stark pants. “God, Pepper, I am an old man, you can’t expect me to keep up with-”

“One drink,” she interrupts his complaint, and, okay, Peter can see what Shuri means by _she has a muzzle_ because Mr. Stark’s mouth snaps shut _._ “Want a drink, then we dance s’more.”

Mr. Stark huffs and wanders off to procure said drinks, from where, Peter doesn’t know. Mr. Stark and Bucky just appear with the stuff, like they have a bar-seeking gene they share.

He returns with three cups, and they startle, eyes flying away from Steve and Bucky in the firelight. He laughs at their identical guilty expressions, murmuring, “A guy could get a complex around those two,” with a nod to the dancing. “Sex never looked so good.”

“It does,” Peter protests in confusion. “You and Ms. Potts, you look better than that.”

Pepper pats his arm again, eyes staring into the dancing at who-knows-what, probably Steve and Bucky again, and says, “Flattery is going to get you so far tonight, Peter. So far.” He’s looking directly at Mr. Stark, so he sees the man’s quick drawn breath before he takes a sip from his cup. Peter sips from his and says, “Oh, hey, did you know this is an _aphrodisiac_?”

Pepper and Mr. Stark laugh. Pepper gasps, “Well, that explains it. God, Tony, you take me to the most interesting parties.”

“Hey, I had no idea, the invitation did not say, ‘Bring condoms,’ like a properly organized orgy would in the States, babe,” laughs Mr. Stark. “Well, drink up, there has to be some kind of stimulant in it, too, I have no idea how you two are not orbiting the earth with the way you’re jiggling in place.”

Pepper and Peter startle apart to look at each other, smiling and taking big gulps of the juice. Pepper hands her empty cup to Mr. Stark and says, “Peter, a dance. Right at the edge, where Mr. Stark can see.”

“Pep, that’s not-” begins Mr. Stark in a rough voice.

“No, you’re tired and old,” she teases, and Peter thinks _muzzled_ smugly as he drains his cup. “Sit this one out. Let us dance for you. Peter?” He tosses his cup to Mr. Stark and lets her tease him out to the firelight with quick twitches of her hips, her arms up in the proper posture from the first dance. She flicks her wrists at him and he’s starting to develop a thing about that dance move. When Bucky was dancing with him, it seemed like such a tease, a challenge to make him dance faster or harder, try to earn more flashes of Bucky’s wrists. When Pepper does it to him, it’s a display of vulnerability, an invitation, a trap, if he knows Pepper Potts at all. He has no idea how the same move on two different people could send such opposite messages.

He’s pretty proud that he still hasn’t checked out the nipple part of her torso as they slide into the kind of moves that _in any other context_ would have him blushing and unable to look her in the face. It feels so good, right now, though, thrusting forward to make her bend back, bodies almost-almost brushing. She sinks down and backwards, spine arching impossibly as her hips switch to a seductive sway in a move he’s seen several women use tonight, and he hovers above her, making ripples move from his shoulders to his hips. The point of the dance is to not-touch-almost-touch, after all. He’s never had sex, not yet, not for real, but his hips somehow know how to dance this dance anyway. He thinks briefly of Steve, dancing with Bucky a little uncertainly. His hips had known what to do, too. Either that or Shuri is a very fast teacher and Steve a very quick learner.

Pepper smiles up at him, and leans in even closer, not-touching, and says, “He’s watching us, you know.”

Peter feels a shiver tingle up his spine as the words hit his hips and they stutter forward, seeking something. She smiles at him, wickedly, saying again, “He’s watching us, Peter. Come dance with me, he’s watching us.” Peter’s coordination is shot and he shakes his head against the sudden loss of brain function. She smiles at him, rolling her hips smoothly. He follows her into the slower pattern, matching her move for move as she whispers, “He’s watching, Peter,” and tilts her face. He tilts his face to match, in a parody of a kiss above to match the roll of their hips below. _Not touching_ , he thinks giddily, as he follows her through dips and twists, feet stomping the packed earth below them in time to the heavy beat of the drums. _Not_ _touching_. Mr. Stark is watching and Peter is dancing sex with Mr. Stark’s Pepper, and he is _not_ _touching_ her at all.

“Just like that,” she breathes at him, thank God for super spider spit hearing, “Just like that, for him, dance with me, Peter. He’s watching.”

Peter loses several minutes to the pounding beat of the drum and Pepper’s wicked smile, her flicking wrists, the slide of her spine and the tilt of her head and the overwhelming need to keep up with her. Mr. Stark is watching them, he knows, he can feel the gaze settle across his shoulders and spine and hips. They’re suddenly surrounded by several bodies, as the dancing surges around them, limbs flashing, sweat glistening in the firelight, but the influx subsides and they’re back at the edge before Peter can think to push them through the crowd, back to the edge where Mr. Stark can _watch_.

Eventually, Pepper is gasping, out of breath, and she asks, “Drink? Take a break?” He could go for hours, he thinks, but his mouth is dry, and he could drink, too. He nods, and she reaches for his hand, pulling him into the shadows.

Mr. Stark is standing where they left him, next to a bush. He leans down stiffly to lift two cups from the ground, holding them out. “You,” he tells Pepper sternly, “are a very bad woman.”

She laughs up at him and he presses kisses to her lips, to her cheek, to her neck. “Very bad,” he assures her, making her laugh at Peter over the rim as she sips. She closes her eyes, murmuring, “Mm. Exactly as advertised, Mr. Stark. Where are our boys?”

Mr. Stark nods in the direction of the far side of the bonfire. “There’s a crowd of admirers following them, just on the edge of the light. It’s ridiculous, so many people are going to be jerking it to the memories they’re making tonight.”

“Mm,” agrees Pepper, and Peter agrees with her. He knows they’re his coworkers and it’s probably wrong, but _holy sex_ , they look amazing and their bodies are flexible and strong in some pretty impossible ways, even from this distance. “They’re going to be fucking soon,” she predicts.

“They’d never get up the courage,” laughs Mr. Stark. “Mr. Prissy-pants and Mr. Angst?”

“You watch, they’re going to forget the rules and kiss, it’s going to happen, look, people are forgetting left and right, Tony,” Pepper tells him. Peter startles and looks out at the firelight. Sure enough, Pepper is right, there’s isolated pockets of two dancers who have forgotten the no-touching rule. Well and one of three, Peter sees, his eyes widening. 

He’s looking for the partners who have switched to Bucky’s stated _other option_ when he notices that Ramonda is moving serenely through the crowd, tapping the shoulders of two people who have forgotten the rules, her hands moving in a clear, “It’s time to go, now,” motion. The couple bow their heads to the touch of her fingertips, ritualistic, on their lips. She runs a finger along their beads before sending them, laughing, on their way, faces alight and hands clutching at each other’s bodies. He watches her glide to the next couple, as dancers continue to swirl around her.

He turns to see if he can see where that couple _went_ , and thinks suddenly of the small tents lining the path, encircling the festival grounds and his eyes widen in shock. Are people, are people just going to fuck, right here, where anyone could watch, could _hear_ them? “Oh my God,” he gasps. “Mr. Stark, the tents- people are-”

Mr. Stark laughs at him, eyes dark and mocking, and says, “Been watching people head back that way, some of ‘em make it up the hill, but some can’t seem to make it quite that far. Convenient, the way Ramonda has it all set out for either option.”

Peter shakes his head because that is _too much_ information. The drums are thrumming into him, now, and he needs to dance again, he can feel it building. He glances at Pepper, but she’s watching Mr. Stark, eyes rapt. Mr. Stark gazes over at her, and Peter can feel the tension in both of them ratchet up as he growls lowly, “Need a dance again, Pep?” 

Peter stumbles back, out of the way of Mr. Stark as he surges forward.

Pepper nods wordlessly, her eyes huge in her face. Mr. Stark’s hand, seated at her waist, suddenly crushes the red sash, mussing up the graceful orange folds. “Don’t wait up, kid,” he says roughly. “Go find yourself a good dancer, have a blast.” And then he’s half-carrying her back out to the firelight.

Peter takes a sip, because _that was permission,_ and he needs to think about that a moment. His gaze slides over Mr. Stark and Pepper as they thread their way to the warmth of the ring closest to the fire, and then hitches over to Steve and Bucky, who are circling each other, long lines of muscle and masculinity on display as they stomp and shake and bend and twist. It’s hot as fuck, he decides, and he doesn’t care if this is probably all wrong. It’s hot as fuck to watch them and he’s taking these memories _to the grave_. They’re doing this next year, he decides, rolling his shoulders as the itch to dance pulls him a couple of steps forward, his tapping toes right on the flickering edge of the firelight. They’re doing this _every year_.

T’Challa is walking towards him, out of the circle of light, a huge smile splitting his face. “Peter Parker, my Nakia saw you dancing with my White Wolf and with Tony’s keeper and demanded that at the next opportunity, I bring you to her for a dance. Are you willing?”

Peter smiles at him, because he’s coming back next year, too. “Yes!” he agrees, nodding. He has _permission._

“Good, come here, I will guide you in,” laughs T’Challa, and Peter swallows, because T’Challa raises his arms in the formal stance. _Oh_ , he thinks stupidly. T’Challa’s chest is dripping with sweat, and his teeth flash in an absolutely wicked smile as he teases, “You’re not too scared to dance with me, are you, little warrior?”

Peter takes a deep breath and shakes his head, raising his arms. He danced with the White Wolf and with Pepper Potts, he can take T’Challa. T’Challa throws his head back and laughs, surging forward unexpectedly. Peter steps back, into the darkness, matching him move for move, and T’Challa chuckles, “Ah, this will be fun, little warrior, here, let me coax you out of your shadows.” He sets a slow, sinuous roll to their motion, flicking his wrists in challenge every so often, never looking behind him, never taking his eyes off of Peter’s body, but somehow guiding them through the wild flailing around them. Peter keeps up easily, the motions slow and liquid, and he does feel _coaxed_ by T’Challa’s steady pull, drawing him closer to the flames than he’s been so far that night.

It’s hot, infinitely hotter, here at the center of the throng, and Peter’s panting a little under his breath as sweat slicks down his sides before they pause. Nakia- the woman he’d seen open the dancing with T’Challa earlier- slides in front of Peter, smiling, her wrists raised high. “You are cream and honey,” she chides him with a smile, “and I have discovered a sweet tooth.”

He laughs at her, because this is officially his first pick up line and it’s awful and amazing at the same time, but he mimics her wrists, flicking his at her, and her face lights up as he switches his hips from T’Challa’s rhythm to her own. She looks over his shoulder, at T’Challa, who is standing so close Peter can feel the heat radiating off of him, so close Peter can feel his panting breaths on Peter’s neck. “We dance,” she declares, and winks at T’Challa. T’Challa chuckles and replies over the drums, over the crackle of the fire, “We dance, my rain goddess.”

It would maybe be hard to be sandwiched between the two of them, dancing out several sexual acts that Peter only has theoretical knowledge of, but T’Challa and Nakia are very experienced dancers and clearly are well able to settle a rhythm between them. Peter’s job seems to be mainly to respond to Nakia and let T’Challa’s arms protect the both of them from interference. The other dancers have begun to get a little, well, less ritualized, their arms no longer stiffly upright and more… flailing. Wildly, sometimes. The drumbeat remains steady, a thrum Peter can’t ignore, a thrum that pulls him deeper and deeper into the dance and Nakia’s electric eyes.

“I like my offering,” Nakia gasps, bending back so that Peter must bend forward above her, his hips undulating against air and one arm thrown out for balance. T’Challa’s voice is hot against his ear as he replies, “As do I, my manna flower,” and Peter realizes what this move must _look_ _like_ , from the shadows looking in. He tosses his head, careful not to hit where he thinks T’Challa’s face is, and concentrates on not falling over on top of Nakia as she slides to her knees underneath him, her upper body shivering in small shimmies as she continues to lean back, back, impossibly back, forcing him to bend lower and lower so that their chests stay close-not-touching-close. T’Challa’s warmth is gone, suddenly, as the man stand upright to stomp the ground behind him. He’s bent over Nakia, hips moving in fast rhythm to her shimmies, and he can’t close his eyes, but he can picture perfectly what this _looks like_ to people watching from the shadows and he can feel a blush creep up his skin. She holds him there, for several long minutes, enjoying the way he strains to meet her and to keep T’Challa with them, close to them, dancing with them still. She laughs, then, and rises slowly, her hips wiggling in an exaggerated figure eight pattern. “He will undo me, with these blushes,” she tells T’Challa teasingly. “You must make him do it again, make him blush for me again,” she commands.

There’s a large dark wrist over the top of Peter’s shoulder, then, and it guides him to shift and face T’Challa. He lifts his gaze in a quick glance at the other man and T’Challa laughs at his expression. “My flower, my rain goddess, I believe I can make him blush for hours for you, at your command,” T’Challa crows, his hips setting a brutal rhythm that Peter matches immediately, without conscious effort. Peter can feel the blush bloom again, unable to meet T’Challa’s teasing glance, miserably aware that he’s absolutely outnumbered by these two. His eyes lock on the other man’s beads as they slap his skin, thinking of how Mr. Stark’s necklace presses tight underneath his own beads. He pants, and shakes his head, and can’t meet T’Challa’s gaze although he knows the man is watching him closely. Nakia, behind him now, shouts, “I love it, it is so bright, like a burning flame under his skin. Be brutal, my king, _burn_ him.”

T’Challa laughs, and dips, shifting until his face enters Peter’s line of sight. He captures Peter’s gaze with his dark smiling eyes, so similar to Mr. Stark’s mocking, teasing stare, and says, “Follow me, little warrior, and let us make you burn.”

Peter is panting already, between the heat of the fire and the rhythm T’Challa has set for them, and he can feel sweat drip down his arms and legs and chest in rivulets. But he doesn’t drop his eyes as T’Challa challenges him with a flick of his wrists, although Peter blushes. Peter holds his wrists facing out, surrendering, because there is no way he can keep up with the man, he’s burning up from the inside out with this dance, panting and gasping for air, and painfully aware that the loincloths everyone is wearing are doing nothing to hide anything about how painfully turned on everyone is right now. While watching T’Challa’s face, he sees Ramonda float by, serene and cool against the heat of the dancers and the night, releasing another couple from the dance.  
  
“Oh, I want to touch,” gasps Nakia in his ear. “He is so red, his skin, it is glowing, I want to touch, my king.” Peter shivers, and concentrates on the hip pattern T’Challa has switched to, in response to a new call from the drums.

“Ah, ah, ah,” laughs T’Challa, flashing her a dark glance over Peter’s left shoulder. “It is only just now midnight, my flower. You know well I must dance until dawn.”

“ _You_ must dance,” she pants, her voice stretched on a smile just behind Peter’s left ear. “Not I. Not him.”

“Mm,” hums T’Challa, and Peter’s not close enough to hear it, the drums are too loud, but he can feel it, somehow, feel it rumble from the other man’s chest into his own. “Does Tony Stark seem like a man who easily shares his toys, my rain goddess?” he asks her, his eyes telegraphing several challenges at Peter, only half of which Peter can read because the man’s hips press into his space and Peter must sink his own backwards into Nakia or _risk touching,_ and that suddenly requires a lot of his attention _._

“Permission,” gasps Peter, because if there’s one thing he wants absolutely clear right now, it’s that he’s in charge of himself, thank you, “I have _permission_.”

T’Challa laughs at that statement and says, “Only Tony Stark, only he would bring you here and set you free on my people, my poor people, with _permission_.” His dark eyes mock Peter in a way that is so familiar and so dangerously foreign at the same time, and Peter tilts his head back just a little, enjoying the way the other man leans forward, suddenly predatory. Mr. Stark does that, too, responds exactly like that to that move.

“If I cannot have him, I must have another cup,” shouts Nakia with a laugh. “You stay, I will bring us one.”

She’s gone before Peter can protest, can say, _wait, don’t leave me with him_. He swallows, and watches a smile slide across T’Challa’s face, and the blush is back.

“Son,” says Ramonda, her hands clapping Peter on the shoulders and making him yelp. He can’t _grind against her son_ with her standing there, touching him, so he pauses in his dancing and watches T’Challa roll his eyes in disappointment. “You have reached midnight without causing an international incident. Your sister has set the White Wolf on that poor man, and if I know my dancers, they will shortly be receiving my blessing.” Peter’s head whips wildly about, trying to see- and there they are, Steve and Bucky, with only a paper’s width of air between them, hands already dropped to rest beside their bodies. They’re dancing slow, and sweet, at odds with the thrum Peter still feels in response to the drums under his own skin, and nothing like the tempestuous acrobatics of earlier. As he watches, Bucky shies his head towards Steve, lips barely missing the man’s lips, and Steve presses forward slightly in response, his eyes drifting shut. _Holy shit._

“Holy shit,” he gasps, because he’s an idiot, but _look at them._ Ramonda and T’Challa both laugh at him, and he can feel the blush creep back up his skin. 

“Indeed,” says T’Challa. “I wish them well. My White Wolf has met his match in that one, and it looks good on them both.”

“I am glad you are here, Peter Parker,” says Ramonda, patting him on the shoulders and making him twitch because this is so _weird,_ how does Shuri live like this, knowing this is going to happen once a year? This is just _weird_ and Wakandan and _weird._ “I liked watching you with Tony Stark’s woman, and Nakia is clearly taken with your grace. Grandmother Cloud says that you are her new favorite dancer, among the ones who were not born to the dance. I think it is all these blushes, that light up your skin, but you can ask her yourself tomorrow. You dance with your whole heart, and the Mother is pleased with you, I can tell.”

Peter shakes his head, biting his lip, feeling the drums rumble under his bare feet. Nakia winds her way through the crowd to where they stand, a pocket of stillness in the jumble of limbs. Ramonda has created that bubble of stillness with her all night, thinks Peter, as she walks between couples and doesn’t ever have to dodge no matter how wildly the people leap and shake.

“Mother,” exclaims Shuri, coming up to them, “Do you see them? My White Wolf and his lion, they’re going to need your blessing soon, I swear it, they are so sweet it makes me gag!”

Ramonda shakes Peter’s shoulders again and says, reprovingly, “Daughter, I thank you to keep to your role and remember the solemnity of this night and any union that is made out of the manna.”

“Oh, yes, mother,” Shuri replies dutifully, clearly chastened by this response. “But it is so sweet.”

“It is, sweet and healing, a long time coming for your White Wolf, my impetuous Shuri. Think on that instead, eh?” She releases Peter’s shoulders as Nakia comes up with a large cup and lifts it to T’Challa’s lips saying, “Grandmother Cloud gave it to me, drink, my king, I promised.” 

Ramonda chuckles and says to Peter, who turns to face her, “She must want you to last until the dawn, my second son. Well, if you were mine, in truth, that is what she would expect. Dance, warrior, for the coming of the rains and new life. You will not dance alone,” she says, her voice a little sly.

Nakia takes a long draught and then holds the cup for Peter, insisting, “Drink, my burning one, honey and cream, and do not make so many faces, it is too sweet and sticky, but it will carry you through the dawn.”

“Ah, mother,” squeals Shuri, “look, they ask for your blessing, I told you!” 

Peter chokes on a mouthful of the syrup, his head whipping to look at where Steve and Bucky had been slow dancing, on the flickering edge of the light. Bucky has Steve’s face cupped in his hands, and Steve is grasping his forearms, and they are totally, completely, and absolutely _lost_ in a kiss. Several faces are just visible in the darkness, watching them, smiles standing out like sharp blades in the dark, some of them clearly talking to each other about the new development.

Ramonda sighs and says, “Duty beckons. I will release them.”

Nakia says, “Finish, my honey and cream, my burning one, tip the cup and give it to Shuri.”

“I am cleaning your dirty dishes,” gasps Shuri in mock insult. “When I have not even danced with my friend once?”

Peter thinks very hard about not looking at her nipples and says, “I don’t- don’t think that’s such a great idea, Shuri.” _No offense,_ he doesn’t add, because how in the world is what he just said _not offensive_. He’s such an _idiot_.

She smiles at him and says, “Nah, idiot man, I was just teasing. I have a string waiting for me, but you should know, you do too. Do not waste all your time tonight with my brother when there are so many new friends you could be making.”

Nakia interrupts this impatiently, “Go find them, then, brat, I was enjoying my dance. Stop stealing him from me.”

Shuri laughs and then says, “Oh no, we will lose all of our pale flames but you, idiot man, your Mr. Stark and his keeper have just begged the blessing, too!” 

Peter whirls to follow her gaze, his mouth dropping open slightly, because Mr. Stark is on his knees directly beside the flames, so close that sparks are landing all around him, his arms wrapped around Pepper’s ribbon-clad calves. She is leaning over him, and they are sharing a very intimate and passionate kiss. He can see the cords in Mr. Stark’s neck muscles, as he struggles with the angle, one hand rising to cup Pepper’s cheek. If anything could be hotter than Steve and Bucky’s first kiss, it’s this moment, as Pepper swirls her fingers through Mr. Stark’s hair and they both breathe hard, kissing with the ease of long practice despite the somewhat awkward angle. Peter can see the way Mr. Stark’s erection strains against the fabric of his embroidered shorts and he swallows. 

_This is pornography_ , he thinks wildly, his cheeks growing hot as he cannot turn his eyes away. _This is, this is wrong to watch, I shouldn’t-_ but he does, he watches them with an embarrassing intensity until Ramonda glides over to them and taps them both on the shoulder. They rise, panting, Pepper pulling Mr. Stark up to stand behind her, where he wraps his arms around her waist tightly, resting his chin on her shoulder. Ramonda is clearly telling them something, because they laugh and nod, and then she touches their lips and flicks their necklaces, and they turn from the light and head towards the darkness of the hill.

Peter gasps, feeling bereft, feeling _broken_ , until Nakia cups his cheek softly, saying, “Ah, yes. I understand now. _Permission_ ,” she repeats. He turns to look at her, and she smiles at him gently, her dark eyes grave and kind. “Maybe next year,” she tells him, “Maybe next year, you will go with them. But tonight, Grandmother Cloud says, you will dance until dawn.”

He nods, because, okay, that sounds good. If he can’t go with _them_ , he’s going to dance. She smiles at him and says, “Here, I will give you to my warrior to distract you and make you blush for me, and then we will see if others would like the memory of a dance with honey and cream. But we will find you, Peter Parker, as the sun creeps to light the sky, we will find you, and you will finish this night held between us, I promise you.” He tosses his head in a nod, feeling the drumbeat against the soles of his feet again, the heat of the fire across his shoulderblades.   
  
T’Challa slides before him, and places a hand on his cheek to lift his eyes up. “Tony Stark does a dangerous thing, leaving you here with _permission_ ,” he says seriously, “but I believe he entrusts you to our care and protection. Nothing bad will happen tonight, I have sworn it.”

Peter nods, grateful for the reassurance, grateful for the steady presence of the other man, so like Mr. Stark, confident, assured. T’Challa continues, “The manna is overpowering, and reveals to us many things, but you are not alone, Peter Parker, and you are safe here, I promise it. The Rain Dance is a sacred space, and you are one of the Mother-blessed dancers.” 

Peter’s feet are twitching, toes curling against the dirt where the drum vibrations stir. T’Challa laughs and teases, “So eager, so quick to embrace the spirit of the night, do you know, I did not know you were such a treasure, little warrior. Now that I know it, I will better appreciate you,” he says, and his smile is wicked as Peter looks up at him with wide eyes. “Are you afraid to dance with me, little warrior,” he asks again, holding up his arms, palm facing Peter.

Peter’s mouth is a little agape as he slides his arms up and stammers, “N-no, your majesty.”

“N-no, your majesty,” mocks T’Challa, his eyes sparkling and his hips beginning a soft and steady rhythm, easy for Peter to follow. “My lady would have me make you blush again, little warrior, and I find I quite enjoy the thought. Will you blush for me, little warrior?” His tone is teasing and his eyes are laughing as he picks up the pace of the dance with a quick thrust in Peter’s direction, his wrists flicking out in a challenge. 

Peter can feel it creeping up his neck and Nakia crows, “My burning one, my cream and honey, how cruel to not be allowed to _touch_. Are you positive I cannot,” she demands of T’Challa, dancing beside them, her hips swaying in time with T’Challa’s thrusts, wrists held facing both of them.

T’Challa looks down at Peter and Peter licks his lips, following the motion of the other man’s torso as he dips Peter back. “Positive,” purrs T’Challa, holding him there, forcing him to sway and snap at this impossible angle. His smile for Peter is cruel and mocking, he clearly enjoys Peter’s struggle to stay composed and move with him, as he continues, “for I claim his last dance, and that will be as the sun rises, mark me, my night blossom.”

She smiles at him and then says to Peter, “Well, dance with me, then, and let him guard your back, for a little while, and then I believe the Dora Milaje would like a share.” Peter nods and shifts to face her, and this time is as fun and frightening as the first. She sets the same rhythm, molded to the new beat of the drums, and they have more room to move now than before. 

He can’t help himself, Mr. Stark has left, and he has _permission_ , so he sneaks a glance, the next time she bends backwards, at her chest, at her breasts, which gleam with sweat and beads in the firelight. T’Challa says, in his ear, lowly, “Ah, and does the manna slide through you, little warrior, are you quite sure you know what you are doing?”

Peter tosses his head, careful not to hit where he thinks T’Challa’s face is, and the other man laughs wickedly. “You are a fine dancer,” he tells Peter. “Remember to mind your manners.”

Peter blushes as Nakia lifts herself sinuously up to a standing position again. He doesn’t quite _feel_ like minding his manners right now, is the problem, though. Nakia smiles sweetly at him, her voice sympathetic as she says, “I, too, hate being released to do as I will, my little burn, but it will all be well, we have you, _dance_.”

~~~

Hours later, Peter’s muscles are trembling. He’s been caught on the edge of desire all night, and so many of his dance partners have teased him higher and higher only to have Nakia or T’Challa interrupt swiftly and settle him back down. Once, Shuri threw an arm between his body and Aya’s, saying, “He needs a drink, Grandmother Cloud has said.” She had pulled him to the edge of the light, and panted, “That was a lie, but you need one all the same, here,” handing him a cup of juice. “You are a flame,” she told him with wide eyes and a proud smile. “Everyone is drawn to you. Even with my brother protecting you and Nakia defending you, they would each of them trick you into begging the blessing with them.” She had shaken her head in amazement and then laughed and said, “It was the same with my White Wolf, though, his first year. I think we grow tired of the same dances and the same partners. Drink, Peter, and I will take you back to my brother, who will see you safely to your next partner.”

That had been his last break, at who-knows-when, he’s been dancing forever, and then, suddenly, T’Challa is by his side again. He looks up, because he was absolutely _not_ encouraging the man in front of him, they are nowhere near “help save me” territory. T’Challa laughs and says, “Stubborn little warrior, it is the last dance before dawn, and my Nakia reminds me to bring an offering.” The man dancing with Peter drops his arms abruptly, and backs away respectfully. T’Challa accepts it as his due, and steers Peter over to where the bonfire has begun to burn out. Nakia and Shuri are dancing with each other, friendly and casual, and Peter cannot believe that he now thinks of moves like that as _casual_ and _friendly_ , but tonight has been an _education_ , and they are just that. He remembers how his mouth had dried up, watching Bucky and Shuri in that first dance, and he snorts, because he is _educated_ now, and he would be 100% comfortable dancing that dance with Ramonda, visible nipples and all. Neither woman looks up from the dance but they both shift their hips to acknowledge Peter and T’Challa.

There are other dancers still, but very few, and the drums have faded down to a background hum. Ramonda stands from her seat under the tent and Peter knows the sky is lightening with pre-dawn because he can watch her do it from where they stand. She glides over to them and says, “My children, you have danced so well, I feel certain this night has renewed our land. Perhaps they have danced in every village as they ought to, but no one has danced as you have done here tonight.”

Peter can feel the oppressive heat of the night and the slowly dying bonfires bake into his skin as she fills one last large cup and instructs them, “Pass, children, the last of the fruits of manna, that not one drop will be wasted.” Shuri takes a gulp, and passes it to Nakia, who passes it to Peter, who makes a face, he can’t help it, before passing it to T’Challa. Peter thinks that’s it, then, but T’Challa passes it back to him, and he finishes the cup. Ramonda gestures for it back, and then smiles at them before instructing, “Go dance, my children, that the dawn may be greeted and the flowers bloom, and the earth turn over and grow fertile again. Greet the Mother, after this long night, with your feet pounding her lifeblood back to its life bearing rhythm.”

Peter nods, although he’s so tired. T’Challa throws an arm around his shoulder and leans in to murmur in his ear, “One more, little warrior, you can give me one more, I know it. My Nakia is demanding, give me one more to settle her down before we bed.” He feels another blush creep up his cheeks as he turns to face Nakia, who smiles in delight at him and crows, “Ahhh, my flame, my little burn, do you burn for me, my cream and honey?”

He nods at her, because he’s gotten over even pretending like he’s not blushing. He’s blushing, it’s awful, he has the worst skin, and she laughs, “Stop pouting, cream and honey, come dance with me.” She sets an easy rhythm, because they are all exhausted, sinuous and slow. T’Challa is behind him, as he has been for most of their dances, and he knows they are exchanging glances over his shoulder by the way Nakia’s face changes expression, slowly becoming more serious, more intense. Her hands are up, and so he holds his up, too, in the ritual style of their first dance, but his shoulders hurt, and he bites his lip a little at the ache. 

“Not much longer,” she tells him, her face kind as her hips roll up towards him, soft and slow and soothing, a gentle wave of her body towards his. “Not much longer, my little burn, I promise it.”

He shakes his head, and feels his nerves start to tingle again as T’Challa laughs, “Ah, the last mouthful, do you feel it, little warrior? Mother was kind this year, to save us back a glass. You have danced more than anyone I have ever seen, other than my White Wolf.”

“More than him, for he begs the blessing every year,” objects Nakia with a sly smile at Peter.

“Yes,” agrees T’Challa simply. Peter can feel the slow slide of passion through his limbs and he wants to whimper because he seriously, he can’t do that again. Nakia laughs and says, “Oh, my king, here, turn, turn, my cream, turn, I want him to see you.”

Peter turns, miserable with blushes, and T’Challa instructs him, “Lift your eyes, little warrior, unless you are too scared to dance with me.”

He’s not scared. He’s been dancing with the man _all night_. He lifts his eyes stubbornly to T’Challa’s teasing dark gaze and grin. “Oh,” murmurs T’Challa, his gaze a little stunned, “you are a jewel beyond belief. Tony Stark does not know what he has captured. Little warrior, do you thrum?” and he thrusts, abruptly, making Peter gasp and blush harder. “You do,” he crows. “Oh, the Mother will hear those gasps and sighs as she wakes this morning, little warrior, and be most pleased. You set us up for a good year.”

Peter can’t help it, he bites his lip and whimpers again, because that teasing tone is so like Mr. Stark’s and he’s seriously been half-hard or fully turned on and revved up _all night._

“He begs,” gasps Nakia, “my king, I must have him, you must, _listen_ to him. Next year, next year we will invite him and not his Mr. Stark and your mother will find someone else to dance the dawn, I _must_ _have_ _him_.”

T’Challa laughs, his eyes mocking Peter as he says, “And would you come, if we asked, little warrior?”

Peter thinks about the question, rolling his hips in time to T’Challa’s thrusts with the ease of a partner who has spent the last long hours dancing with the man. “Yes,” he says, simply, blushing when T’Challa looks at him in disbelief and Nakia hisses, “Yesssss,” from behind them.

T’Challa laughs and Peter feels compelled to add, “But I’m not sure Mr. Stark will ever give me _permission_ again.”

T’Challa rubs his own face with the back of a forearm, wiping away sweat. He nods agreement and says, “Well, that would be smart of him, yes. We will have to negotiate it. My night blossom deserves the best that I can find her and I have not found anything she likes so much as you, cream and honey.”

Peter blushes again, his skin feeling tight, and T’Challa’s gaze darkens as if he notices the potion slide along Peter’s nerves and set his skin on fire with want and need. “Not much longer,” he promises Peter. “The dawn is nearly here. Listen for the drums.”

The sky has lightened, although it is heavy with clouds, so light that Peter can make out the tents lining the festival grounds, so light that he can see the beginning of the path up to the castle, so light that he can see the castle, with the rug-darkened windows. The clouds are ominous, and they press down against the festival grounds, and he thinks he can smell ozone, although there is no wind.

“You are a good man, cream and honey,” Nakia tells him, her voice serious and breathless. “You have helped us dance the life back into our land, and if we forget to thank you tomorrow, I will thank you now.”

“Yes,” says T’Challa, watching Peter closely, trapping Peter’s gaze with his dark serious one, “thank you, little warrior. This has been a Rain Dance to remember.”

Nakia laughs, light and breathless behind him, and the drums boom loudly seven times, and stop. 

The silence is deafening.

T’Challa sweeps him up into his arms with a shout and Nakia crashes into his back, her arms reaching around him to clutch at T’Challa. They squeeze him and shout, all of the dancers are shouting and hugging and jumping, and then the clouds burst and everyone is shouting and running for cover under Ramonda’s tent, laughing.

“This,” shouts a man, “this is a Rain Dance, this is the best year! Surely we will be blessed!”

Peter had danced with him, hours ago, before Shuri and her cup of juice. He had wicked jabbing thrusts of his hips and a wicked gleam in his eyes, then, but he looks nothing but content and peaceful now.

Ramonda approaches Peter and gathers his hands in front of her. “You did so well, my second son,” she tells him serenely. Her nipples are very visible in this light and Peter wants to ask her to put them away, please, the dancing is _done_. “I was proud to watch you. Come, have my son take you back up to a bed, and put you in it. We will feast this afternoon, and you will sit with us at the head table. Everyone who watched you dance tonight will understand the honor.”

Peter nods, because for all the last of the drink is coursing through his veins, he is exhausted, bitterly exhausted. He’s not surprised when T’Challa takes him in a firm grasp and says, “To bed, little warrior, come with us, we dancers who danced up the dawn.” His eyes are half-closed as they climb the hill, water sluicing down their sides, the rain is as much a torrent this morning as it was the previous afternoon, and he wants to tell Nakia he can just curl into an open tent, but none of the tents are unoccupied as they pass them.

They hustle him up the stairs and into a suite that is not his suite, and then feed him something- some kind of bar things, _of course Wakanda has an improved granola bar,_ he thinks bitterly. They help him wipe down his body with plush warm towels and T’Challa wraps him up in another loincloth before pushing him towards the pile of gigantic pillows in one corner of the room. “Sleep,” laughs T’Challa, crawling in after him to wrap himself around another pillow. “They will hold the feast for us, sleep, little warrior.” He’s naked under the loincloth and still hungry but he doesn’t care, he’s so _tired_.

Nakia slides in to spoon Peter, and it’s nothing like Mr. Stark, but she’s warm and soft, and she nuzzles the hair at the back of his neck and whispers, “Cream and honey, my little burn, sweetest dreams.”

Peter slips away, then, his feet pounding and his arms trembling, and hopes they are prepared to feed him right away when he wakes up, because he is _exhausted_.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up slowly, which is unusual. Someone is petting his hair. “Mm, ngh,” he grunts, batting at them. “N’g’way.”

“But Peter,” laughs Mr. Stark, “I have coffee for you.”

Peter cracks open an eye, because even just-awakened, he wasn’t expecting that voice to greet him. He’s still in the suite with all the pillows, still curled around a pillow, but there’s no sign of T’Challa or Nakia in the pillow area. The lights are low, and with the rugs in the windows, there’s no way to tell what time it is. He sits up slowly, and Mr. Stark hands him the coffee, crouched beside him on the floor.

“It’s a really good look on you, the loincloth,” Mr. Stark tells him, after he’s had half of the cup and is thinking about living again. “Easy access.” He runs a finger down Peter’s thigh and Peter glares at him. He throws his hands into the air and says, “I brought food. I brought food!” He hands Peter another granola-type bar. Peter tears into it with his teeth,  _ he’s so hungry _ . He devours it, alternating between bites of bar and gulps of coffee.

“Nakia came to get me, said you were still asleep, they’d just woken up. The feast will be in an hour, but I know your metabolism, and I hear, well, everyone is talking about how you danced the entire night, it’s big news. Very impressive. Some kind of status thing.” His eyes crinkle at Peter and Peter remembers Mr. Stark and Pepper in front of the fire, Mr. Stark on his knees. 

“I did half expect to hear you’d wandered off to tent city with someone,” Mr. Stark comments lightly. “But finding you in the bed of the king, well, that’s a new one. I’m struggling with some hardcore jealousy.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Peter, and then winces. Mr. Stark was teasing. Peter wasn’t.

“Ah,” says Tony. After a moment, he sits and pulls Peter into his lap. “Yeah.”

Peter scrubs his face against Tony’s shirt and tries to tell himself he’s being stupid, but it falls flat. 

“I can’t fix that,” says Tony after a while, in a quietly pained voice. “I was hopped up on aphrodisiacs and if I’d even danced with you once, I’d have done things to you that I promised, I promised myself we’d go slow and I’d do right with you. If I’d even danced with you once, Peter, I’d have grabbed you to one of those damn tents and-” he huffs out a breath.

“I wanted you to,” says Peter angrily. It’s mostly true.

“I know, Trouble, I know you did. I know you do, I know if I offered right now, you’d give me everything we want, right now.” Peter nods, his cheek rubbing against Tony’s shirt, comforted by the  _ we  _ in  _ we want _ , comforted because it’s true, he  _ would _ . _.  _ “This is one of those times, though, when you have to let me drive. I want better for you, okay? I promise, we’re almost out of the woods here, SI almost doesn’t need me, and then it’s straight to the island, and once we’re there, and we’ve had some practice, I won’t be as jumpy. But you have to let me drive, right now, so I can do this right.”

Peter scrubs his face against Tony’s shirt again. “I don’t want it to be special. I just want it to be you.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Tony assures him, “And if your birthday had been in February, we wouldn’t have to wait at all, I promise. I just ran out of time, year end hits hard. I know you don’t need it to be special.  _ I _ need it to be special, Peter, even if it’s just in one of our beds, even if it’s just the two of us, no games. I need it to be right, and  _ respectful _ . Shit, I’m not explaining this right, at all.” He kisses the side of Peter’s head and sighs. “I will always regret not grabbing you to one of those tents, you and Pepper, and doing whatever the hell I wanted to do and you were willing to do. And if you need to hear sorry for hurting you over and over again I can give it to you. I didn’t tell you to go find another partner to hurt you.”

“So it’s okay if I let T’Challa fuck me but it’s not okay to let you?” asks Peter incredulously. Tony stiffens and he knows he’s scored a hit. 

“I didn’t tell you to go get fucked, Peter,” Tony growls. “Is that what you heard?”

Peter shrugs. “You didn’t tell me anything, you didn’t give me any  _ rules _ .”

“Oh, hell,” hisses Tony after a moment. “Pepper is going to kill me.”

“ _ I’m _ going to kill you,” Peter informs him, glancing up for the first time. 

Tony looks down at him and says, “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I’ll let you, too. I’m not great at the communicating thing, I’ve mentioned that. I meant, go do any of the things we’ve already done with someone who is going to respect you in the morning.”

“Oh,” Peter sighs.  _ Hey, wait- _ “But I don’t want to do anything with anybody  _ but- _ ”

“Ah,” Tony puts a finger up in warning. “I saw you last night, and I _also_ drank that potion. I would literally have done the old hag in the tent, and I know for a fact, watching you, that you were feeling the same way. Right now, you don’t want to fuck anybody but me, and that is also how I feel _right_ _now_ , I do not want you fucking anybody but me. But last night? Last night was different.”

“Last night was way different,” agrees Peter after a pause. He looks up at Tony and says, “It was the hottest thing, I just- when you and Ms. Potts.” He twists, shifting in Tony’s lap, unable to look the man in the eye while he confesses. “It was so hot.”

“I bet. I felt the same exact fucking way watching you dance with her. Jesus, Trouble, you were wearing a goddamn  _ loincloth _ .”

“I still am,” he tells Tony.

“Yes, I had noticed that,” Tony grunts, a finger trailing up Peter’s thigh again.

“T’Challa helped me put it on. Both times,” Peter tells him.

“You have to let me live long enough to kill him, now,” Tony says, his voice dead serious. 

“I slept with him and his girlfriend last night,” Peter adds.

“Dead. It may take me until next year, but I’m killing him, I’ve made up my mind, you’ll have to let me live at least a year, give me a year to figure out how to take him out.” Mr. Stark’s hands tell two stories- one grips Peter’s hand in a possessive grasp, and the other trails a line up his exposed thigh, inquisitive and playful.

Peter laughs. “What would you have done if I had done more than slept with them,” he asks, curious.

“Respected that last night was weird, weird things happened, been happy for you that you figured out a way to have fun, been worried that you didn’t have enough fun, been worried that you had too much fun, and killed T’Challa,” lists Tony rapidly. Peter snorts and buries his face back against Tony’s chest.

“Don’t kill T’Challa,” Peter says. “He and Nakia defended me all night long, while I danced. Whenever things got- uh-  _ tentworthy _ , one of them would interrupt and carry me off to the other one, and find me a new dance partner.”

Tony concedes, “Only a little killing, then. He’s touched what’s mine, he cuddled you last night when I wanted to cuddle you but couldn’t because cuddling would have quickly turned into destroying. He must be punished, Peter.” He’s playful, but Peter can hear just enough disquiet and jealousy that it actually makes him feel better.

“Next year,” starts Peter.

“Oh, no, there will not be a next year,” Tony interrupts. “You and Pepper both, immediately, ‘next year’ but there’s not going to be a next year, Peter.”

“But Nakia wants to sex me up,” Peter explains innocently. “She calls me her cream and honey. She was the big spoon. I owe her, she protected me after you left. We danced the dawn up.”

Tony’s jaw drops. He snarls, “That little minx,” and then clenches his teeth. “You are only  _ my _ cream and honey and  _ I _ am your big spoon,” he informs Peter, crushing Peter to him in a tight hug. It feels good. It feels  _ right _ .

“Except if there’s manna juice,” Peter reminds him.

“This _one time_ , because I couldn’t trust myself, I gave you a _little_ permission. Once.” Something in Peter is calming down from a long panic, from _not_ _knowing_ , the longer Tony gripes at him. “And, ok, I wasn’t great with the words but I already have to kill T’Challa, killing his will-they-won’t-they will not phase me.”

“So next year,” tries Peter again.

“Mm. Not happening,” grumbles Tony, wrapping arms around Peter. “Can’t risk it. You should hear everyone talk about you. A whole damn country trying to take you away from me? I don’t think so.”

Peter rubs his cheek against Tony’s shirt and says, “Let ‘em  _ try _ .”

Tony tilts his head and nibbles on Peter’s lips and says, “You tell ‘em. You’re mine.”

“Except if there’s manna juice,” Peter reminds him.

“This _one time,”_ Tony growls. After a long pause where they both seem to enjoy the echoes of that statement, he adds, “And maybe others, if we talk about it a lot. And I mean, _a_ _lot_. Because I get what I want, and you’re _mine_.”

“I’ll let Nakia know,” Peter teases. “A year should be enough time, don’t you think?”

“We’re not doing this again,” Tony says, but he trails one finger up Peter’s thigh.

“I’ll wear a loincloth and dance with you,” offers Peter. “If, if we  _ did _ come back next year.”

Tony makes a noise like someone punched him, a pained puff of air escaping his lips, and chuckles weakly, “Yeah, Pep promised me shirtless and tiny skirt, I have no idea what to do with the two of you, you’ll kill me.”

Peter thinks about that image and says, “Okay, but now I’m putting my foot down. You don’t have to come next year, but Pepper and I  _ definitely _ are coming back.”

“Oh, you’re putting your foot down?” teases Tony. 

“I danced up the dawn,” Peter tells him. “T’Challa and Nakia made promises about next year, because I am amazing and I brought the world to life last night. With my hips,” he adds. “I get to sit at the head table.”

Tony twitches. “Maybe I could share you, with enough of that damn poly-sex-juice in me. I have had a lot of highs in my life but that shit was insane. And hangover free..”

“Oh, God,” Peter says suddenly, remembering the other victims of the poly-sex-juice debacle. “Bucky- Cap- have you-?”

“Nope, haven’t seen them,” Tony tells him on a laugh.

“They begged the blessing last night,” Peter tells him, feeling shocked all over again, remembering  _ that kiss _ .

“What does that mean?” asks Tony, tilting his head.

“Oh, you were- yeah, it’s when you can’t dance anymore so you go have sex to make the world fertile. You and Ms. Potts begged it, well, really, it looked like you were the one  _ begging _ , and then Ramonda comes over and gives you the Mother’s blessing, and then you go off. To have sex. It’s like church,” offers Peter, trying to capture the sacred feeling he’d had, watching Ramonda glide between dancers, touching lips and necklaces in benediction.

“My kinda church,” laughs Mr. Stark. “So they went off?”

“Well first they  _ kissed _ .” Peter shifts a little. “It was so totally hot. Almost as hot as you and Ms. Potts.”

“Almost, huh?” teases Mr. Stark.

“So unbelievably hot,” repeats Peter, shifting. 

Mr. Stark trails a finger up and down his thigh and murmurs, “ _ You’re _ so hot. Every time I looked for you last night, that dance with Pep, I would get hit with this feeling. ‘I can’t believe that guy is  _ mine _ .’  _ You _ are so hot, Peter, so unbelievably hot. So  _ totally _ hot,” Peter knows when he’s being mocked by Mr. Stark, and that’s definitely his mocking  _ voice _ but his hand is tracing circles on Peter’s thigh than are underlining a different message. “If we come back next year-“

“When,” interrupts Peter, a little breathless.

“If,” emphasizes Mr. Stark, his tone playful, “we come back next year, I am going to watch you, just like that, and burn for you-“ he grabs Peter’s thighs, shifting Peter to straddle his lap, looking up at him with eyes gone dark and dangerous, “just like that. Watch you and burn for you and  _ take _ you. We won’t even make it back to the rooms, we won’t even make it until midnight.”

Peter shifts, a tiny thrust, lips parted and panting, caught in his gaze. “You’re too new,” Mr. Stark continues, “and I don’t, I can’t  _ crush _ you right now, with all the things I want to do to you, all the things I feel about you,” Peter gulps, eyes wide “but next year,  _ if _ we come back?” He digs his fingers into Peter’s thighs, pulling Peter roughly towards his crotch, “Next year, you dance like that, Trouble, and you won’t be walking to the head table the next day.” 

Peter nods, shivering, he can’t help it, and then shakes himself and says, “We’re coming back next year, Mr. Stark. I want- so bad-  _ please _ .”

“Jesus, Trouble,” whispers Mr. Stark roughly, and then he lifts two hands to cup Peter’s face and kisses him.

Whatever was left of the jealous and hurt feelings left over from the night before is washed out of Peter in that kiss. “I believe you,” he whispers, after long minutes have passed and the kiss has moved from intense to comforting, from passionate to intimate. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry, I’m such an ass,” whispers Tony back to him, eyes closed, foreheads touching. “I was just so scared I’d do something else I promised myself I wouldn’t do with you. You’re so much trouble, you get me in so much trouble, break all my rules.”

Peter peppers his lips with kisses and declares, still whispering, “They’re stupid rules. I don’t need anything special, just you.”

Tony breathes deeply, and it’s unsteady. Peter keeps kissing him, gentle and soft, until he laughs and says, louder, more conversationally, “Maybe. But they’re important to me. You’re important to me. I want to get you right.”

“You do,” Peter promises him. “Even, last night, I had T’Challa, I had Nakia, they took care of me. It wasn’t bad. We danced the dawn up.”

“See, you say that,” complains Mr. Stark with his mocking voice activated at full blast, “and I think it’s a sex thing.”

“Oh, it’s totally a sex thing,” Peter assures him. “ _ Everything  _ last night was a sex thing. I  _ danced sex _ all night long, it was so intense.”

“Yeah, about that,” grumbles Mr. Stark, kissing him again, hot and heavy, with too much tongue. “You’re not allowed clubbing without me. Ever. New rule. I don’t want to have to chase a bunch of jerks out and shut down a club because you accidentally create The Cult Of Peter Parker’s Perfect Hips, so if you go dancing, I’m  _ there _ .  _ Mine,”  _ he adds, nipping at Peter’s lips.

“It’ll be years before I’m legal,” Peter reminds him.

Mr. Stark groans and falls back onto a pillow, flinging and arm over his eyes, “God, don’t remind me, I’m such a fucking monster. This right here? This is exactly why I have rules and we’re taking things glacially slow. I. Am. A. Monster.”

“No, you’re not,” laughs Peter, sliding down to lay next to him, propped up on an elbow.

“Shut up, you’re wearing a  _ loincloth,  _ I had  _ such a thing _ for Carrie Fisher, you are  _ killing me  _ right now, I’m actively dying,” moans Mr. Stark.

“T’Challa had to help me get it on. Twice,” Peter says brightly.

Mr. Stark lifts his arm to glare up at Peter, “Not helping, Peter. Because now I want to show you how I can help take it  _ off _ you, twice, and there’s a feast, you’re sitting at head table.”

“Oh, then I’m definitely not changing, I’m totally wearing this,” Peter tells him. “It’s super comfy, I might ask T’Challa to teach me to put it on myself and wear it around the Tow-“ Mr. Stark sits up abruptly and puts a finger to Peter’s lips. 

“No,” he says mildly. Peter kisses the finger and then nibbles it a little. He snatches his hand back and scolds, “Bad toy, we have things to do now, no, no, being  _ you _ , in a loincloth. I’m  _ dying.” _

“I guess you’ll have to wait,” sighs Peter, mockingly. “It’s probably time to go get ready. We should try to find Bucky and Steve.”

“Mm. And Pepper. Shit, she’s going to kill me.”

“What? Why? We’re okay now, we worked it out,” Peter says, confused.

“Oh, yeah, that is not how any of that works,” Mr. Stark informs him. “I hurt you, even if, if it was because I was trying to protect you from me all hopped up on poly-sex-juice, she is gonna chew on me about the bad communication for  _ hours _ , you watch.”

“I won’t let her,” Peter reassures him confidently, standing fluidly and twitching the loincloth into place. It really does feel fantastic and soft, and after last night, he is no longer self conscious at all, wearing it. He literally danced  _ sex _ with like half of the people  _ in this building _ . There’s no coming back from that feeling awkward.

“Like either of us have any choice,” huffs Mr. Stark, standing a lot more stiffly. “Yeah, let’s go get Steve and Bucky.”

~~~ 

They don’t find the couple before it’s time for the feast, although they do collect Pepper, who looks relaxed and regal in a teal embroidered tunic and tight shorts. Ramonda herself tracks down Peter. She’s wearing another diaphanous gown, but this time it’s opaque, and Peter breathes a sigh of relief.

“You look well, my second son,” she greets him, “you wear T’Challa’s old warrior cloth well.” Mr. Stark makes a noise, but Pepper shushes him so Peter doesn’t have to. “It is fitting for this feast, and will remind many of the Rain Dance, a good choice.” She nods and offers him her arm. “You will escort me, and The Grandmother, come.” She whisks him away from Mr. Stark and Pepper.

“The White Wolf has not been seen since he took Shuri’s Lion into the dark last night,” she murmurs as they walk. She sounds pleased.

“Well, they’re going to be hungry,” Peter tells her. Actually, that’s no joke, they’re going to be  _ really _ hungry, he thinks.

“I have set my first son to fetch them out,” she confesses, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I would like to be in place at the Head Table when they enter, that I might see… whatever there is to see.”

Peter nods. He can get behind that.

They pause at an entrance, and the old woman from the night before reaches out and grabs Peter’s thigh with her gnarled fingers and gives it a shake, “Such long shanks, such cream, you danced the dawn and flowers grew in the wake of your footsteps, little warrior,” she teases him. He frowns and steps back. “Oh, I will see you dance next year, you brought such heat and joy,” she chuckles at him.

“Enough, Yosiva,” scolds Ramonda. “Your office is done, unhand the man and let him walk with dignity.”

“An old woman needs such a reason to live,” Yosiva chuckles.

Peter glowers at her for a moment until she raises her hands playfully, in a mockery of the formal dance pose, and promises, “No touching. I am old enough to know how to behave, and you have earned my best behavior.”

He nods, and offers her his hand. Ramonda takes the other, and they walk into the crowded hall. Upon seeing them, the men and women stamp their feet to the rhythm of the drums the night before, and there are hoots and catcalls. Peter rolls his eyes at one of his dance partners who shouts, “Cream for my coffee, you were not a spirit but a real man?!”

Ramonda murmurs, under the uproar, for his ears alone, “There are years, my second son, when this feast is quiet and decorous, but after last night, well, prepare to be adored and your legend embroidered. You did very well.”

They pass by T’Challa and Nakia at the head table, and T’Challa stops him with a flick of his finger to the loincloth, laughing, “You wear it well, little warrior. Keep it, as a promise for next season.” Peter nods, flushing. 

“Oh, my little burn,” squeals Nakia, her fingers capturing Peter’s hand and pressing it to her lips. The room explodes into loud laughter and catcalls again. “Blush for me, my cream and honey,” she teases. He nods again, and they release him with chuckles. Ramonda, waiting with an indulgent look on her face, seats him on her right side, Yosiva on her left. 

Shuri leans over and says, “Nice touch. You will be worshipped as I am, now. They are already writing songs.”

Peter rolls his eyes and takes a starfruit from the basket in front of them, biting into it.

“Starfruit!” shouts a voice, from somewhere in the crowd, “Ahh, my luck is in, I will have a huge crop this year.”

“I fed him oatcakes last night,” shouts T’Challa back, laughing, “So you are out of the luck, T’bunti.”

“You fed him oatcakes?” laughs a woman, from right up close, but she has pitched her voice to ring against the walls. “I saw you dance the dawn with him, I say it was not oatcakes you fed him first!”

“Oh, well, if that was his first meal, I will take that luck, too,” calls T’bunti hopefully. The room bursts into laughter and hoots again.

Peter realizes what they’re bantering about, in this huge room, and flushes, leaning forward to look at T’Challa pleadingly as the king shouts back to the woman, “Had I fed him that, Sharri, he would not have risen until dawn tomorrow. Oatcakes!” The room explodes into pounding feet and fists and laughter.

Shuri pats him on the back and says, “You danced very well. Everyone is very happy. It means a good year, bountiful harvest. Let them have their fun.”

“You danced, too,” he argues, uncomfortable. He distinctly remembers her dancing. A lot. He’s grateful she never tried to dance with him, in fact. Sciencebros do not dance together that way and then calmly discuss mass vectors in the morning.

“I rested often,” she tells him, eyes dancing at his discomfort, “and spent more time putting dancers together, as is my role. My people love me for it, but it is not the same. Nobody has ever danced as you danced for us, not even T’Challa, not even my White Wolf.”

“Have you seen him?” asks Peter distractedly, grabbing for a meatroll the minute the servers put the platter in front of him.

“T’Challa rousted him, they will be here any minute,” she assures him. She smiles widely, her eyes sparkling, “I cannot wait to see my results.”

Peter hopes the results will be  _ optimal, _ or it’s going to be a long awkward plane ride back to the Compound in a few hours.

There’s a stirring at a side door, and Peter’s attention is caught. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts walk in, her in her teal outfit and Mr. Stark in a matching black fitted sleeveless-tunic-and-shorts set. The crowd stamps their feet and hoots for them, as well, and then goes wild as Bucky walks in, shoulder to shoulder with Steve. If Peter thought they were raucous for his entrance, they are absolutely  _ rioting _ for their White Wolf and his dance partner.

“There’s hickeys on Steve,” Peter says, dumbfounded. “He’s, there’s hickeys. He’s a supersoldier, he’s got a healing factor, and he has  _ hickeys _ .” 

“I see them,” Shuri tells him smugly in an undertone. “My White Wolf has a strong bite.”

“My White Wolf has a strong bite!” shouts T’Challa over the din, and the crowd stamps their feet and pounds the tables as Bucky shakes his head and tugs Steve over to an open spot at the table with Mr. Stark and Pepper. Steve rolls his shoulders and sets his chin, but there’s a slight redness to his neck and face that Peter  _ sympathizes with. _

Bucky leans over and mutters something in Steve’s ear and the other man nods, irritated, taking a huge bite of the meatroll and glowering at the table. Bucky laughs, and grabs a piece of starfruit, and bites into it.

“Ahh!” cries T’Bunti, “I have the love-luck, the manna-begotten flame, my crop will be superior, I knew it! If not the little cream dancer, damn your oatcakes, T’Challa, the love-luck is mine!”

“Ahh, hush, you, only half, the other one eats my meat,” shouts a different man from the other side of the room. The crowd loses it as T’Bunti groans, “Uhhh, I do not  _ share _ well!”

Steve puts down his roll and looks ready to start a fight, right then, right there. Peter tenses, but Bucky leans over and hooks an arm around Steve’s neck, pulling him over to whisper furiously in his ear. Steve nods, and then nods again, and then relaxes a little, shooting daggers at the wall with his eyes as Bucky talks. He blushes, eventually, and ducks his head, and Bucky kisses his temple and returns to eating, completely unconcerned with the eyes watching him and smirking.

Mr. Stark leans over to Steve and speaks to him in a low voice. Steve’s eyes fly to Peter, shocked. Peter feels caught- what, what is Mr. Stark  _ saying _ ?- and looks back at him, eyes wide and trying to feel innocent. Steve looks at T’Challa, then, and then back at Peter, and swallows, shaking his head with a small smile on his face. He leans forward and says something to Pepper, who coughs and nods her head, covering her answering smile with a hand.

The crowd is bantering about other dancers, now, and couples who waited too long to beg the blessing, or who forgot to close their tent flap, or who left too soon, too eager. It’s loud, and fun, and Peter thinks it’s the weirdest thing, how open and happy the Wakandans all are about the  _ religious sex orgy _ they hosted the night before.

Ramonda leans over and says to him, “The people are happy. This will be a good year, Peter Parker, my second son. I thank you for attending.”

Peter turns to face her and says, “Can I come next year?”

“I insist,” she tells him, smiling. “I will have the weavers begin making your loincloth tomorrow. Now that we know you will dance like that for us, you must be properly adorned.”

“Mother, I have promised Nakia he will not dance the dawn next year,” warns T’Challa. Nakia nods, her face eager and delighted. She winks at Peter and mouths, “Burn for me,” and he smiles shyly back at her, burning a little.

“We shall see,” Ramonda laughs. “You will have to argue that one with his Mr. Stark.”

T’Challa says, his teeth flashing white in his beard, “I will enjoy it. It will be a challenge.”

“My son, if you must climb that mountain, you had better apply yourself to your food, first,” Ramonda tells him, laughing.

Peter decides to follow her advice, as well, glancing over at the table where Bucky and Steve are sitting shoulder to shoulder, and Pepper has put her head on Mr. Stark’s shoulder. He stuffs another starfruit into his mouth and listens to the crowd banter, calling about some woman who had apparently jumped on top of her partner and knocked him to the ground, and laughs. Mr. Stark does take him to the most interesting parties.

~~~

  
  
  


Pepper is _pissed_. They’re in Mr. Stark’s bedroom on the jet, and she is _ticked_. Peter is getting a little nervous even though she’s ticked on his behalf, because how is Tony _surviving_ this, much less sitting there spitting back at her? Peter would have _open_ _wounds_.

“- so, just to be clear, Tony, I’m not ok with hurting Peter, with ignoring his needs-“

“-I didn’t ignore, I was _protecting_ him, from _my_ impulses _,_ which were _comprised,_ if you remember-“

“-abandoning him, drugged up and confused-“

“-hey, I left him with the _subject_ _matter_ _experts-_ “

Peter stirs, because he’s literally lying between them on the bed and they’re fighting over top of him, and enough is probably enough. They’re starting to repeat. “Hey,” he says quietly, and both of their glares snap down to his face immediately. He winces, and the glares both morph into concerned looks. “I don’t need Tony to be perfect, Pepper,” he tells her. Tony twitches against him, and he reaches up a hand to pat the man’s chest. “I could have, I could have walked over and opened my mouth about how it made me feel, too. I watched you guys leave and I didn’t say or do anything.” Pepper shakes her head, about to argue, so he continues quickly, insisting, “I didn’t. And I can tell you feel bad about not even noticing that’s where I was at, but I don’t need you to be perfect either.”

They both shake their heads down at him. Pepper sighs in frustration and mutters, “Ok, fine,  _ you  _ be perfect about it.”

“It’s not, I’m not trying to be perfect,” protests Peter, pushing himself up to sit so their heads are all level now, and isn’t  _ that _ a metaphor he’s not examining any closer. “I’m just saying-“ he waves his hand vaguely- “There was poly-sex-juice we didn’t know about, we didn’t plan for it, and next time we’ll do better.”

The silence is absolute.

Peter tries again. “Kevin said my most important job was to be honest, Pepper. Because Tony can’t make good decisions for me if I’m not. And I wasn’t honest. It’s on me, too.”

“Fuck, kid,” says Tony, “That’s, that’s not how this works, you can’t just-”

“Accept my fair share of the blame?” asks Peter, and he knows his chin is getting a stubborn tilt to it. So be it. They want to fight the whole flight home, he can do that. He’s not an  _ actual _ toy. 

Tony winces. “You, there’s no  _ blame _ .”

“Yeah, you and Pepper are just sorting out what, then?” asks Peter, falling back down onto the bed. He knows he’s made them stop and think when there’s silence for a moment.

Pepper snorts. “He’s got us there.”

“He’s got us everywhere,” admits Tony. “It was a shitty thing to do,” he repeats, like it needs emphasizing.

“It was,” agrees Pepper.

“And we’re not doing it again,” Peter reminds them. “Next time, we’ll do it differently.”

“Yeah. Next time, which isn’t happening, I keep telling you both that,” Tony complains, until Peter tugs on his shoulder and pulls Tony down beside him. 

He suggests to Pepper, glancing between the two of them, “Come cuddle me. You hurt my feelings and we didn’t pack travel pills and that means we’ll all get jet lag, so come cuddle me and we’ll nap it out.”

“We forgot the travel pills?” moans Peppper, sliding in closer and dropping her head to a pillow. “Nooo.”

“I’m making Bruce figure them out tomorrow,” Tony announces to the room. He snugs Peter in tight, shifting him to his side for perfect little spoon, wrapping limbs around him and providing a furnace’s worth of heat for Peter to soak up.

“You had fun, right?” asks Peter after a long few minutes where Pepper shifts incrementally closer and finally gives in and grabs for his hands, pulling them to her chest. “It looked hot, from, from the fire.” He shifts back against Tony, just to make the other man pull him in tighter.

“Oooh, Storytime,” rumbles Tony. There’s a long pause where Peter waits for a story, listening to them all breathe, before he speaks again. “Yeah, that was, it was,  _ yeah _ . I’d do all of that again, in a heartbeat, so intense.”

“Not our best sex, but definitely Top Five,” Pepper judges decisively, rubbing her cheek against the pillow. “Number One was the night, Italy, Tony, remember, when you said ‘I love you’ and then we went for  _ hours _ , on the trattoria?”

“Your number one maybe, so much fucking grappa, loosened my lips and my dick,” sighs Tony, nuzzling the nape of Peter’s neck. “My number two, because like two months earlier, Havana, with the ice cubes.”

“Oh, yeah,” agrees Pepper easily, “I can see that, that’s  _ my _ number two. But, yeah, it was so good, Peter.” She shifts a little closer and lets her eyes drift shut.

“Dancing was good, too,” he tells her seriously, his own eyelids feeling so heavy, the dull roar of the jet plane wrapping around him like a muffling cocoon. “Maybe not, like,  _ sex _ good, but-“

“You really like edging, just admit it,” laughs Tony, nipping at his necklace. “Edged yourself all night, kinky little toy.”

Peter blushes. Put like that, it’s not flattering, but, well, the shoe does fit. “I like edging better with a  _ partner _ ,” he points out, already starting to yawn. 

“Mm, and I don’t like that I missed out on teasing you,” agrees Tony, voice lowering and thickening.

“Next year,” Peter and a Pepper say together.

“Mm, maybe,” concedes Tony.

“Shh,” hushes Pepper. “Go to sleep now.”

Peter wiggles once more, back into Mr. Stark’s warmth, and pretends for a moment that it’s the heat of the flames. He sighs, thinking of Steve and Bucky, left back in Wakanda to  _ sort things out _ , a little enviously.

But he has Pepper on his side, and the blessings of the king and the Mother. They’ll be back next year, he knows it. Mr. Stark will want to watch his honey and cream  _ burn _ .

**Author's Note:**

> So from here on out, it's just going to be throwing them into fun situations to make more porn for us all. Feel free to leave inspiration/requests in the comments, I can't guarantee I'll write them but you might spark something!
> 
> Also, please, this, like, this is really far into this, y'all. If you made it all the way here just to criticize me, but you haven't bothered to chat with me in the comments? Just go away, you gigantic dork. PRAISE ME FIRST, then correct my spelling. (THEN PRAISE ME AGAIN. I need that compliment sandwich. Unless you want to beta. Then, I guess we'll figure that out. EDIT: TURNS OUT, I LOVE WHEN MY BETAS ARE BLUNT. THANKS, GUYS.)


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